For endless moments Leonie looked at him, her thoughts chaotic, a dozen different suggestions rioting through her brain. She was literally—and perhaps for the first time in her life—speechless. It had been her secret dream, a cherished fantasy that someday, all of the land might be reclaimed. She had known it was only a wild dream, but she had clung to it as fiercely as she had the desire to regain her home. Suddenly, unexpectedly to have it within her reach was stunning, breathtaking.
She swallowed again and then to her utter horror she felt her eyes film over and she burst into tears. Something inside of her had snapped, and her entire body shook with the force of the sobs that racked her slender form.
Almost as horrified as she was, Morgan stared at her helplessly for a second, and then enfolded her in his embrace, his strong arms cradling her trembling body. "Sweetheart, don't cry," he begged into her tawny curls. "Please, don't cry. I thought you'd be happy. I thought it would please you... once you got over the idea of my paying off the note."
"I am happy!" Leonie stated gruffly, as she hastily scrubbed away a betraying tear. "It is just that I—I never expected such—such a wonderful thing to happen."
"A lot of wonderful things are going to happen for us, cat-eyes," Morgan muttered, his gaze fastening on her soft mouth. Unable to help himself, he bent his head and his lips captured hers in a long, searching kiss.
It was a sweetly fierce kiss, full of barely leashed passion and yet, there was a gentleness about it. They stayed locked tightly together, each one assuaging a sudden, urgent hunger, each unbearably aware of the other until at last, reluctantly, the embrace was broken. Slowly, unwillingly, Morgan raised his mouth from hers and said in a shaken voice, "If I continue to kiss you, and if you are so sweetly obliging, I shall not be responsible for my actions."
Shyly, Leonie met his gaze and said with sudden bravery, "But should you be? I am your wife."
A shuttered look fell across his face, and he turned away, saying flatly, "I think it is time that we headed back for the inn. It is getting late and we still have several hours of traveling ahead of us."
In a queerly tense atmosphere they walked towards the Chateau and eventually came to the horses and the curricle. Silently Morgan helped her into the curricle and a few minutes later, they were driving away from the plantation.
Morgan wasn't displeased with the afternoon's work—although, he could have done without her innocent reminder of the true state of affairs. When she had called herself his wife, his heart had contracted painfully and he had wished passionately that it had been true. But even if he could not yet bring himself to explain about Ashley, at least, he told himself, she knew the Chateau was safe now, and he had confessed his purchase of the remainder of the Saint-Andre lands. He smiled faintly, remembering the expression on her face. Then he sighed—that she would argue further about his payment of the note in greater detail he fully expected.
And he was right. After several minutes had passed, and Leonie had regained her composure, she brought up the subject again. But while Morgan allowed her to trot out her heart-felt objections to his generosity, he remained infuriatingly steadfast in his blunt refusal to let her use the dowry to repay him.
She argued during most of the four-hour journey, and it was only when they were approximately a mile from their destination, that she came to the conclusion that he was the most enraging, unreasonable creature she had ever met. With impotent rage she glared at his handsome profile longing to smack his face. Beast! she thought furiously. But then a tender smile curved her mouth; he was impossible, arrogant, overbearing, and outrageous, but she wouldn't have changed one hair on his dark head for an emperor's ransom!
It had been a long day for Leonie. A long, exciting, disturbing, emotional day, and by the time the inn came into sight, she was aware of a feeling of exhaustion. The hour wasn't late, it was just after ten o'clock in the evening, but she longed for nothing more than her bed, for peace and quiet in which to review the events of the day. Time in which to dream of a future that was growing more exciting, more enchanting and wonderful with every passing moment.
When Morgan made the suggestion that she retire for the night, she had no argument, and even the fact that he did no more than drop another of those chaste kisses on her mouth didn't disturb the dreamlike state she had entered. And not fifteen minutes after he had bidden her good night, she was curled up in her bed, sound asleep, her head full of her infuriating husband and the incredibly happy life they were sure to share... as soon as he stopped being so exasperatingly stubborn about certain things!
For Morgan there were no such rosy thoughts of the future, and not liking the idea of facing his lonely room with Ashley's specter rising up to taunt him, he turned away from his door and went downstairs and out into the night. Standing on the gallery of the house, he absently lit a cheroot and smoked it in silence, wondering at the cruel tricks that fate could play.
Thinking of Ashley, and of his own intolerable position, Morgan suddenly found that the cheroot tasted vile and with a furious motion, he tossed it into the darkness. He didn't like his own duplicity—the lies he was telling or the role that he was playing. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to tell Leonie the truth, unwilling at the moment to face the hostility and disbelief she was certain to experience. In time, he thought moodily, in time... when she has learned to trust me. If she ever does.
Finding no solace from the night, he eventually made his way to his room. Entering his bedchamber, he sensed the presence of another person almost immediately.
Halting just inside the doorway of the darkened room, his eyes pierced the blackness, searching for the cause of the curious prickle along his spine—a feeling he hadn't experienced since he'd left France and the attendant dangers of spying behind. Cursing himself for going about unarmed, he stood there indecisively for perhaps a second, a dozen improbable thoughts careening through his brain, as he tried to pinpoint the source of his uneasiness.
From the corner of the room there was a sudden brief flash of flame, and then a well-remembered, affectionate voice drawled, "Do come in, Morgan! And if you're armed, for God's sake, don't shoot! I have no desire at all to be shot down in cold blood by one of my dearest friends."
A snort of laughter broke from Morgan, and crossing the room he lit the lamp on a table near his bed. Swinging around, he shone the light on the man who lounged with indifferent elegance on the chair in the corner.
"Brett Dangermond!" he said half-amusedly, half-angrily. "You're just damned lucky I wasn't armed! And by all that's holy, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Looking for adventure," came the laconic reply, as Brett continued to light a thin black cheroot. Shooting Morgan a glance from deceptively lazy green eyes, he added, "What other reason could there be?"
Morgan snorted again. "With you, one never knows," he replied.
Brett only shrugged his powerful shoulders, and his lean, sardonic face filled with amusement, he murmured teasingly, "I can see that marriage hasn't sweetened your disposition."
Morgan threw him a look. "You know about that, do you?"
"Mmm, yes. Couldn't help but know with the entire Natchez district buzzing with it... and before I came to New Orleans, I paid a visit to Bonheur. Missed you the night of the ball for Burr and had planned to visit you at home, but Dominic explained your sudden departure."
"And did he also explain about the marriage?"
Brett appeared thoughtful. "Enough," he finally said, "to make me wonder if you've lost your wits."
Morgan smiled. He and Brett had grown up together and there wasn't much about the one the other didn't know. They had shared for a number of years the same bitter attitude about women, and though Leonie's entrance into his life had changed Morgan, Brett was still a confirmed misogynist. And remembering certain unpleasant things in his friend's past, Morgan couldn't say that he blamed him. But still he made an attempt to explain the current situation. Glancing across at Brett, he said, "Leonie isn't
the jade I assumed—Ashley impersonated me and married her under my name. I've written Dominic, but he wouldn't have yet received my letter when he spoke to you."
There was a low whistle of surprise from Brett and for the next hour or so, over several glasses of brandy, the two men brought each other up to date on their affairs.
The marriage dominated the conversation, and watching the pain that crossed Morgan's face when he talked of Ashley and the fact that Leonie was legally his cousin's wife, Brett asked casually, "Shall I find him for you... and kill him?"
Morgan stiffened, knowing that there was nothing casual about Brett's question. It was a solution, but one he found distasteful, and shaking his head he met Brett's eyes and said firmly, "No. And I mean it, Brett."
Brett shrugged. "Very well, if you insist. But," he added in a deadly tone, "my friend, if I do happen to cross Ashley's path, don't expect me to ignore him."
Morgan looked at him a long time. "I don't want you to do it, Brett."
"But if positions were reversed...?"
Morgan grimaced, knowing Brett had him there. "Just don't go looking for him."
"Agreed," Brett said cheerfully.
The subject of Ashley and the marriage was dropped, and taking another sip of his brandy Morgan asked, "Besides just sheer wanderlust, why are you here? You never did say."
"Little Burr," Brett said. "The man fascinates me. I'd like to know what he's up to. And so..."
Morgan cocked an eyebrow at him. "Just Burr?"
Brett threw him a mocking glance from between his thick black lashes. "Burr and Wilkinson," he conceded. "That's an unholy alliance if there ever was one, and it has aroused my curiosity." A frown creasing his forehead, he asked Morgan, "You were in New Orleans when Governor Gayoso died, weren't you?"
Surprised and showing it, Morgan nodded his head.
"And Wilkinson was there too, wasn't he?" Brett said musingly. "You know, over the years I've heard some curious stories about the night Gayoso died... that and some wild theories about how Gayoso really died."
Despite Brett's air of idle speculation, Morgan wasn't fooled. Almost resignedly, he asked, "And you want to know if I noticed anything?"
One finely shaped eyebrow rising with astonishment, Brett replied, "Whatever gave you that idea?"
Ignoring Brett's rhetorical question, Morgan told him what he remembered of that night. He ended his recital with, "I'll admit that I was surprised when Wilkinson showed up, and I thought at the time that there might be more to his being at Gayoso's than chance, but I never heard or saw anything that strengthened that view." Shooting his friend a considering look, he asked, "What have you heard?"
Brett made a steeple of his long fingers. "Not a great deal and at the moment, it is pure speculation on my part. But one or two of the governor's servants have whispered that it wasn't a fever that Gayoso died of. I know for a fact from a few of the Spanish officers I've happened to have conversation with over the years, that Gayoso was upset with Wilkinson about something; no one will come out with it, but I gather they have their suspicions that the governor did not die a natural death."
"Rubbish!" Morgan said firmly. "Gayoso's death was sudden, but surely you don't suspect Wilkinson of murder?"
"Why not?" Brett returned cooly. "Especially if Gayoso was displeased with Wilkinson? Don't make the mistake of underestimating our esteemed general, Morgan. He may bluster and appear an incompetent fool, but he has the instincts of a cornered rattlesnake and you should remember it."
Morgan bit his lip, recalling that he'd had just the same thought at one time. Reflectively, he said, "No one has ever proved that Wilkinson was working for the Spanish... but if he was..."
"And if Gayoso had found him out in playing a double game...?" Brett supplied smoothly.
Morgan frowned. "What the hell does all this have to do with Burr?"
Brett shrugged. "Perhaps nothing. But I've also heard tales of the existence of a map—a map supposedly drawn by Philip Nolan, a map that could guide an armed expedition into Spanish Territory." His green eyes meeting Morgan's, Brett said softly, "Wilkinson was Nolan's patron and there have always been whispers that Wilkinson has a more than polite relationship with Spain... but it wouldn't be out of character for him to betray them without a backward glance. Add Aaron Burr, a fallen angel in search of a kingdom, a man far more influential than Wilkinson, and all sorts of possibilities exist. Especially since Little Burr has come here to New Orleans, where intrigues are as common as the rising sun."
"You really think Wilkinson murdered Gayoso? That he has a map presumably of Nolan's, and that he and Burr plan to invade Spanish Territory?" Morgan finally asked, not really believing it, and yet aware that it wasn't impossible.
They talked for some time longer, and then finally Brett set down his brandy glass, and rose to his feet in one lithe movement. "I think it's time I found my own bed, but I'll see you again before I leave; perhaps at that time, I'll have more than just idle speculation to share with you." A sardonic expression on his face, he added, "And mayhap by then you will have resolved your difficulties with your ladylove."
Ruefully Morgan conceded, "Perhaps. But I wouldn't count on it, my friend."
Chapter 29
After Brett departed, Morgan lay sleepless in his lonely bed, longing to have Leonie in his arms. Knowing that was not possible, he mulled over the conversation with Brett. Had Wilkinson murdered Gayoso? Was Burr connected to Wilkinson's penchant for intrigue? Finding no answers he pushed the thoughts away, feeling that if anyone could solve the puzzle it would be Brett. Let Brett worry about Burr and Wilkinson, he decided—he had enough to worry about with Leonie!
As a consequence of Brett's visit, the next morning Morgan procured a pistol that was easily concealed beneath his clothing. He also acquired a wicked looking knife that fit into his boot—he hadn't liked his feeling of defenselessness when he had opened the door and sensed that someone else was there. There would not be a second time.
The next two weeks flew by for Morgan. Each day was a bittersweet glimpse of heaven for him. All his doubts and suspicions about Leonie had been put to rest. He fell even deeper under her spell, but he was always painfully, gallingly aware that she was Ashley's wife. During the pleasurable days that followed their trip to the Chateau Saint-Andre, a dozen different times he brought himself to the point of telling her the truth, but something invariably postponed the announcement. Sometimes it was simply his own inability to destroy the happiness and growing trust that he saw in those eyes. On other occasions it had been bad timing; someone or thing always interrupted them just as he was about to begin his disagreeable explanation. He viewed the interruptions with a combination of fury and relief.
But even with Ashley's shadow hanging over his head, there was a great deal of pleasure in his time with her. Cautiously they began to learn of one another, and he discovered a hundred things about her that made him love her more completely, and though his body hungered for hers and his arms ached to hold her next to him, he forced himself to sleep away from her. It wasn't the fact that she was married to Ashley that kept him from seeking her bed, but the bitter knowledge that until she knew the truth, he would be taking advantage of her belief that he was her husband.
Fortunately, the days were busy and Morgan didn't have time to brood over the situation. With the debt against the Chateau taken care of, and his purchase of the additional acreage completed, there was nothing to stop their restoration of the old plantation. There was a short, heated argument about the use of his money from Leonie, but Morgan had taken her by the shoulders and shaken her soundly. His temper fraying, the blue eyes hard and cold, he had snapped, "I am growing weary of this constant battle between us about my money! God damn it, Leonie, do we have to live in poverty because you don't have the money to pay for the things that are needed to make the Chateau livable? I am, may God forgive me, a rich man! Must I resign myself to moldy walls, a rutted driveway and mouse-eaten mattresses, because you ca
nnot afford to have them taken care of? For heaven's sake, I have the bloody money!"
It was blunt, but it was effective. Leonie had stared at him as if she hated him, and had said stiffly, "Very well, monsieur, if that is the way you feel about it. I shall not argue with you further."
An exasperated sigh had broken from Morgan when he had looked at the proud, miserable expression on her face. Gently he had tipped up her small face. "Must we argue over money, sweetheart? It is for both of us! Does it really matter who pays the piper, as long as he gets paid?"
Leonie couldn't resist the coaxing note in his voice and gruffly she had replied, "No, monsieur, it doesn't. And—and I am sorry to have been so silly."
Morgan had smiled then and, sweeping her into his arms, he had kissed her and muttered, "Not silly, darling... adorable!"
That particular obstacle out of the way, things had moved at an astonishing pace. Morgan hired an army of workmen to start putting the old plantation in order. The driveway was the first thing to show signs of improvement, the ruts and ditches now a thing of the past. The shaggy, unkempt shrubbery and grasses were also already showing the attention of several gardeners, the lawn in front of the house neatly scythed and trimmed; the various bushes, the scarlet camellias and white azaleas, the rioting bougainvillea and honeysuckle vines had been pruned into some semblance of order. The sagging fences now stood proudly upright, the new posts and rails obvious by their unpainted state. Soon, though, the entire fence line would be a glistening, pristine white.
Only minor work had been done to the house itself—the hanging shutters straightened; the missing balustrades restored, and the broken steps of the horseshoe-shaped staircase replaced. But there was a new air of vitality about the house, almost as if the building sensed that its time was coming, that soon the real restoration of it would start.
Leonie and Morgan had continued to stay at Madame Brosse's for some days after their initial survey of the house. It was, as Morgan had pointed out, far more practical until certain things were decided upon. At first Leonie hadn't known what he meant, but she soon found out-there were numerous trips to the cabinetmakers and the upholstery shops; there was the necessity of selecting not only individual pieces of furniture, but the styles and type of wood as well as the fabrics. Floor coverings and carpets had to be decided upon, window hangings and curtains obtained, and Leonie's head was pleasurably spinning as she viewed all the lovely materials and goods that were so deferentially displayed for her—the fact that Monsieur Slade was a wealthy man had not gone unnoticed by the various merchants, nor the fact that he wanted only the finest merchandise for his home.
Deceive Not My Heart Page 41
