Deceive Not My Heart Read online

  Wasn't it time that Gaylord took an active interest in the small estate given to him at his majority? Did he think his father would support him in a lavish style all his life? It was time, Mr. Easton said, that Gaylord learned what a hard day's work consisted of. No more of this sleeping till noon, then joining friends for horses and drink and the like. No more of this careless, aimless pursuit of pleasure!

  It was extremely unpalatable news for Gaylord, and shuddering at the thought of working, even if the work consisted of nothing more arduous than overseeing the twelve or so slaves that had also become his when he turned twenty-one, Gaylord had immediately set about seeking another way to feather his pocket. His fine dark eyes had fallen on Melinda Marshall for a variety of reasons. He had always admired her, for she was a beautiful girl, and now with money at the forefront of his mind, her inheritance made her even more beautiful.

  Gaylord had begun his courtship some months ago, but somewhere along the line, he had made the mistake of falling madly in love with Melinda; and until the return of Morgan Slade, he had thought he was winning Melinda's capricious heart. Morgan's advent on the scene had been a nasty setback. During the past weeks, he'd had to sit back and watch with pain and impotence as his love meekly followed her parents' dictates, and his heart was filled with rage and jealousy.

  If Gaylord hadn't fallen in love with Melinda, he could have shrugged aside her sudden deflection and looked around for another heiress—certainly there were plenty of them in Natchez—but Melinda's melting blue eyes had stolen his heart and he was in jealous agony. He was furious, yet understanding of her parents' obvious angling for marriage with Morgan Slade. After all, Slade was a far richer man than himself, and Gaylord did have a reputation for wildness and lack of steadiness. There had been one or two incidents that the elder Easton had very quietly hushed up, but even so, Gaylord's reputation was such that most parents might view him with a jaundiced eye. Of course, no one but Gaylord and Melinda knew that their affair had gone quite beyond what was acceptable. This midnight rendezvous was nothing new, nor was the fact that Gaylord had kissed Melinda more than once and had even daringly caressed her smooth white bosom. Gaylord had taken Melinda's consent to meet him as a positive sign and his heart had leaped with joy, but while she consented to these shocking clandestine meetings, she always became vague when he pleaded with her to let him approach her father with an offer.

  Unfortunately for young Mr. Easton, Melinda had been only testing her feminine wiles on him, and while she had found him exciting at first, and the daring of meeting with him secretly had been most enjoyable, since meeting Mr. Slade, she'd begun to find Gaylord's protestation of love something of a bore. His kisses were very nice, of course, and it was most thrilling when his eyes glittered with suppressed passion and he was nearly shaking with the emotions she aroused, but she had discovered she had suddenly grown weary of it all. Now, Mr. Slade was something else again, she mused dreamily. He wouldn't tear his hair with rage and sulk like Gaylord did when she had slapped his hand for taking liberties. Oh, no, she thought with a delicious shudder, he wouldn't stop so easily.

  "Melinda, haven't you heard a word I've just said?" Gaylord asked roughly, and blinking her blue eyes like a sleepy kitten, she looked up at his dark, tormented face.

  "Yes, of course, I have. But it doesn't change anything. Mr. Slade is calling on father tomorrow morning, and if he makes an offer, I intend to accept."

  "But Melinda... !" Gaylord cried with anguish, his arms reaching out for her.

  They were in the rose garden at the side of Marshall Hall, and Gaylord's voice carried clearly in the still night air.

  Almost sharply, Melinda said in a lowered tone, "Oh, hush! Someone might hear!"

  Gaylord threw a harassed eye towards the majestic white house, the huge pillars gleaming ghostly in the moonlight, the tall oaks and magnolias appearing black against the lightness of the house. It was silent, no sound breaking the stillness, and his voice a hoarse whisper, Gaylord got out, "You can't marry him! You must let me speak to your father first!"

  Her blue eyes reproachful, Melinda stared at him. "Do you wish for me to be unhappy?"

  "No, of course not!" he replied instantly.

  "Could you take me to Paris? Could you give me a house as large and wonderful as Bonheur?" she asked reasonably.

  His young face uncertain, he said slowly, "No, not at first, but..."

  Melinda let a tear form in the blue eyes. "You would want me to live in that horrid old house you have on that meager amount of land you own?"

  Nonplused, Gaylord looked away. He had never planned for them to live there—he'd meant for her father's money to provide them with something considerably more suitable, but he could hardly tell her that. And he writhed at how mercenary he had been. In a barely audible voice, he muttered, "No, but..."

  "With Mr. Slade, I shall travel and have lots of lovely clothes. I shall have all the servants I want, and I shall have babies... and the biggest, most beautiful home in the area," Melinda said happily, a pleased gleam in the blue eyes. Looking at Gaylord's dark face, she asked, "Could you give me all that?"

  "No, but..." he began helplessly.

  "Then how can you say you love me? And that you want me to be happy, when you don't want me to have the things that I need to be happy?" she asked with a pretty pout.

  His fine dark eyes flashing with the intensity of his emotions, Gaylord said passionately, "Melinda, I love you! I thought you loved me! How can mere things compensate for our not being together?"

  Melinda let her breath out in a sigh. "I don't know, Gaylord... I only know that mother and father want me to marry Mr. Slade, and that he can give me all the things that will make me happy. I will miss you, and I know I will cry at night when I think of your sweet kisses... but I think I had better marry Mr. Slade."

  "Melinda!" he nearly shouted with helpless fury. "Stop and realize what you are doing. I love you!"

  Her lovely chin set at an obstinate angle, the golden curls gleaming softly in the moonlight, Melinda said with paralyzing practicality, "Well, if you love me, you'll want me to be happy. And I think it is very selfish of you to want me not to marry Mr. Slade. You said you didn't want me to be unhappy." She hesitated, and then looked so adorably soulful that Gaylord's heart ached as she added, "I should be so very unhappy if I were poor, Gaylord. I couldn't bear it!"

  There was no argument Gaylord could offer to change her mind, and with a mixture of love, pain, and a strong desire to strangle her, he watched her slip through the gardens to the house. Knowing his heart was breaking, he turned away, his thoughts heavy and dispirited. He felt it was ironic justice that the woman he loved should want to marry someone else for money, in view of the fact that he had once thought to do that very thing himself. And unfortunately, he didn't even have the solace of thinking she was being forced into the match—she'd made it abundantly clear that she found the idea of being Morgan Slade's wife more than a little appealing.

  Melinda wasn't quite as mercenary as she appeared. But when Morgan had made the assessment that she hadn't any brains, he hadn't been far wrong. Melinda had all the intelligence of a spoiled, petted child. There wasn't a mean bone in her body and she was at heart a gentle person, if single-minded in the pursuit of her own happiness. She was fond of Gaylord in her fashion, and if he had been rich, she would have very happily married him and settled down to be a loving wife and mother. But she also looked out for her own comfort, and while Gaylord's fine eyes had once attracted her, Morgan's mocking blue ones did now. Completely oblivious to the hurt she had inflicted upon Gaylord, she happily made her way to her room and once in bed proceeded to sleep deeply, her dreams full of Morgan's dark, ruthless face.

  To Melinda's immense satisfaction and delight, Mr. Morgan Slade came to call upon her father the next morning, and that afternoon in the same garden that had seen the death of Gaylord's hopes, she prettily accepted Morgan's offer. She looked lovely in the golden sunshine, her flawless
face protected by a wide-brimmed straw hat, and her high-waisted blue gown trimmed in delicate lace intensifying the blue of the big eyes. Politely kissing the soft white hand that had been extended, Morgan smiled to himself, thinking that perhaps life with this sweet, undemanding child might be quite enjoyable. He gallantly pushed aside the thought that it would also be boring... very.

  The two families were jubilant, and in the evening there was a small dinner party to celebrate the betrothal. It was decided that on the first of June there would be a large formal party at Marshall Hall to announce the approaching nuptials, and Morgan had found himself agreeing to a marriage in August. He also found himself curiously disinterested in any of the plans that were discussed. Stifling a yawn, his face very dark above his white linen shirt and his blue eyes full of mockery, he finally excused himself from the talk of wedding gowns, food, and drink, and wandered outside.

  Walking slowly around the wide veranda of Marshall Hall, glancing occasionally out at the well-kept gardens, the color and vibrancy of the shrubs muted in the moonlight, Morgan let his thoughts drift. Stopping at the broad steps that led to the massive double doors at the front of the mansion, he lit a thin, black cheroot and savored for a moment the aroma of good Virginia tobacco.

  The double-breasted evening coat he was wearing tonight fit his broad shoulders expertly, and in the moonlight the dark blue color appeared black, his linen shirt a white blur in the shadows of the night. The tip of his cheroot gleamed whenever he raised it to his lips to take a deep, satisfying drag, the smoke curling like an ever-changing mist near his dark head.

  Blankly he stared out across the wide expanse of lawns, his thoughts far away from the tranquility and peacefulness of the night, and he was suddenly assailed with an aching longing for the seemingly endless acres of tall, waving grass of the plains of Texas and the sound of the wind's mournful keen as it swept across the prairie. He took an absent drag of the cheroot, one hand resting in the pocket of his nankeen breeches, and glanced at the full moon. A Comanche moon, he thought to himself, a raiding moon, and the yearning for the wild, savage days of those two years with the Comanches swept over him. He sighed and grimaced in the darkness. Why do I always seem to want to be where I am not? he asked the night silently. He hadn't always been this restless, reckless seeker, he admitted to himself. No, he thought bitterly, not until Stephanie and Phillippe's death.

  Time had dulled the pain of Phillippe's death, but it had done nothing to lessen his contempt and indifference to the women who sought his attention. Even having agreed to marry Melinda, he couldn't say that his ideas about women had changed. Absently his fingers lightly touched the little gold cross that still hung from his watch chain after all these years—women were deceivers ever, he reminded himself. And for the first time in a very long time he found himself thinking about the virgin whore he had taken that night at the governor's residence in New Orleans. Where was she now? Morgan wondered idly. And would she still be as desirable as she had been that night? Or had time and the life she had chosen transformed her vibrant young body into that of a worn hag all too soon? The thought disturbed him, especially since he could remember vividly the feel of her in his arms, and he moved uneasily. She haunts me even now, he admitted wryly. It must have been the mystery, the curiosity about her identity and the reasons behind her actions that made him recall her so clearly, he decided. What other reason could there be?

  I should have tried harder to find her, he concluded. Once seen in the clear light of day there would have been no more mystery about her to taunt and tantalize him. And who knew—once seen, once her identity was established—he might have decided to make an honest woman of her. Why not? She had come to him a virgin and he would have had no doubts about her purity... at least at first. She had been young, very young, of that he was certain, and he could have molded her to suit him precisely. Morgan snorted. Oh, yes, that's exactly what he should have done—married his virgin whore and brought her home to Natchez.

  A burst of laughter from the house intruded into his thoughts, and taking one last drag of the cheroot, he pitched it into the darkness. My little betrothed awaits me, he told himself grimly and turned to go into the house, only to be brought up short by the sight of his younger brother Dominic leaning negligently against one of the huge, white pillars of the house.

  Dominic spoke first. Pushing himself away from the pillar, he said, "I've been watching you the past few minutes, and I'll be damned if you give the impression of a man on the verge of embarking upon the happy state of marriage. More like someone who's received a death sentence."

  Morgan smiled and cocked one thick, black eyebrow. "And you have made an extensive study?"

  "No, but despite the separations, I do know you, and you're not in the best of moods at the moment... and I wondered why."

  Dominic had grown into a tall, slender young man during the past five, almost six years, and while he didn't yet have the broadness of shoulders that his older brother possessed, he would have them in a few more years. The childish softness that had been his at seventeen had vanished and left a face that wasn't precisely handsome, and yet there was something about the laughing mouth and dancing gray eyes that made one think that Dominic at twenty-three was very handsome. He walked towards his brother and added, "The thing that has me puzzled is why, out of all the belles in the district, you chose that ninny-hammer!"

  Cool amusement glittering the dark blue eyes, Morgan replied dulcetly, "True, but think how undemanding she will be. As long as I give her a child every few years, and buy her gowns and take her to Paris now and then, she will be perfectly contented."

  Dominic frowned in the darkness, not liking either the expression on Morgan's face nor his tone of voice. Studiously observing the toe of one highly polished evening shoe, Dominic said slowly, "Morgan, I hesitate to mention this, but are you certain you're doing the right thing?"

  Morgan shrugged his shoulders and replied wearily, "God knows! But I'm tired of wandering like one of the Israelites in the desert, and marriage seems one way of putting a stop to it."

  Dominic said nothing for a moment and then very casually he murmured, "Did you know that up until you arrived home, Gaylord Easton had been paying very assiduous court to the fair Melinda?"

  Sending his younger brother a level glance, Morgan reached into his waistcoat and pulled out another cheroot. Taking his time he lit it, and then just as casually he asked, "Old Lloyd Easton's youngest cub?"

  "Hmm. The very same," Dominic answered. "The gossips say that Gaylord needed a rich wife and that Melinda was his choice... until you came back. There's some who even say she wasn't averse to his suit either."

  His voice without inflection, Morgan inquired, "Are you warning me about something, Dom?"

  The picture of innocence, Dominic glanced up. "Me? Of course not! I just thought you might find it interesting." Dominic turned away and started towards the house and then stopped. Over his shoulder he added, "I'd be careful of Gaylord, Morgan—he doesn't have the best reputation, and I would wager he's not going to take Melinda's betrothal well... or without trying to do something to stop it."

  Without another word, Dominic strolled back into the house, leaving Morgan alone with his thoughts. Dominic hadn't been exactly subtle, and the knowledge that Melinda had been involved with another man just prior to his arrival sat ill with Morgan—especially in view of what had happened with Stephanie. He wasn't jealous, and if the involvement had been an old affair, he would have dismissed it. But Dom had obviously felt the need to warn him, and as his brother was not given to gossip, Morgan took heed of the words. Had Melinda's heart been involved with Easton... were her parents pushing her into a more advantageous match?

  During the days prior to the public announcement of their impending nuptials, Morgan made several attempts to discover just that, but to all his gentle probings, Melinda returned a sweet smile and began to speak of something entirely different—usually her wedding gown or their plans for the
future. She was particularly insistent about wanting to go to Paris, once the horrid war between England and France was over, to buy an entire wardrobe, and Morgan was left with the bitter reflection that marriage was not going to be the answer to his restless state.

  Gaylord Easton had lived up to Dominic's prophecy, and Morgan had found himself delicately treading a line between the desire to laugh out loud at Easton's ridiculous behavior and a strong inclination to give the young man the fight he was obviously spoiling for. Gaylord made no secret of his blighted hopes, and while most people were inclined to smooth over his wild accusations that Morgan had used unfair tactics in gaining Melinda's hand and heart, there were a few who nodded their heads in agreement and encouraged young Easton to make a complete fool of himself. Things came to head two evenings before the grand ball at which Morgan and Melinda were to be toasted and honored.

  Seeking some relief from the talk of the wedding and the rapidly approaching ball, Morgan had escaped to King's Tavern, which was located on a slight hill on the outskirts of town. The place was not precisely fashionable, but Morgan liked its simple good cheer and comfort.

  The well-known tavern was situated at the end of the Natchez Trace, and travelers usually stopped here either traveling up or down the Trace. Consequently, it was a busy place and there was generally a pleasant hum of activity about the tavern. The lower floor was bricked and it was here that the taproom and kitchen were located, while the second story, constructed of wood with a narrow porch and slim wooden columns, consisted of private rooms for the weary travelers.