A Heart for the Taking Page 2

  For a long moment, Anne stared at Constance. This was the way it had always been: Constance threatening her with some dire fate if she didn’t do or obtain something that Constance desperately wanted. Once the objective had been gained, Constance would turn back immediately into the sweetly smiling creature most people knew. Only Anne knew of the greed and viciousness that lay behind that lovely face. Constance would do precisely as she had threatened.

  Anne’s slender shoulders drooped with defeat. “Very well.”

  “Oh, Annie, dear, I knew you would not let me down,” Constance said softly, a pretty smile curving her mouth. “And I would never have really sent you back to England—how could I? You are the dearest creature. You never fail me.”

  When Anne remained unmoved by her words, Constance said quickly, “I’ll make it up to you. Truly I shall.”

  Her heart heavy, Anne paid her no mind. The squirming baby clutched to her bosom, she slipped from the room. Moving swiftly down the long, wide hallway, her step faltering only as she came to the ornately framed portrait of Letty’s grandmother, Charity, and her twin sister, Faith, she silently made her way through the darkened house. After finding her cloak in her room, she flung it on and, moving carefully, fearful that some servant might be awakened by the storm and find her, quickly departed from the house, the baby hidden beneath the folds of her cloak.

  Outside, the full force of the storm hit her, the wind and rain clawing at her like a wild thing. Grimly Anne struggled forward, deliberately shutting out all thoughts but one. The river. She had to reach the river.

  The river, a branch of the James, lay a good three-quarters of a mile from the main house and the last of the outbuildings. Usually it was a pleasant walk, several tree-lined lanes leading to a landing at the river’s edge, but in the middle of a fierce storm, with no light to guide her but the brilliant and terrifying flashes of lightening, Anne took no pleasure in her journey. The horrible thought of what she would do at the end of it filled her with pain and sorrow.

  The babe was quieter now, the soft, mewling sounds that he made muffled beneath the blanket and cloak. Anne tried not to think about him, tried not to respond to the warm weight of him in her arms, or the emotions that rose up within her as he instinctively rooted near her breasts.

  The sound of the river rose above the wind and rain. Swollen by the storm, it roared and surged in wildly tossed waves, and Anne’s steps grew even slower as she neared it. How could she do this thing? Even for Constance, whom she loved more than anything in the world? But what was she to do? She didn’t doubt for a moment that Constance would do as she threatened—despite what she had said afterward. Anne knew Constance, and if she didn’t obey her . . . Anne swallowed painfully. Well, it just didn’t bear thinking about.

  Reaching the river’s edge, she sought out a small bluff. A streak of lightning snaked across the sky, revealing the dark, furiously churning water below, the current running hard and fast. Slowly she opened her cloak and brought forth the babe. She even got as far as lifting him in the air to toss his swaddled weight in the river. But she could not. A sob broke from her. What was she to do? She could not murder this innocent babe. And she could not return to Constance with the deed undone.

  As she stood there indecisively, her desperate gaze suddenly caught sight of a tiny light moving through the woods in her direction. Someone was coming. But who? Who would be out in a storm like this? Her breath caught in her throat, and she clutched the baby tighter to her. She couldn’t be discovered. Not here. Not now.

  She glanced around frantically, utter blackness meeting her look. What was she to do? The small bobbing light drew nearer, and still Anne stood there undecided. The force of the storm seemed to lessen for a moment, the wind falling, the rain slacking, the thunder and lightning slowing in its intensity.

  The sound of a man’s voice carried to her, and to her astonishment she realized that the fellow was singing. Singing in the midst of a storm like this?

  The baby gave a great lusty cry just then, and to Anne’s horror the singing stopped and a voice called out, “Who goes there?”

  Thoroughly terrorized, Anne did the first thing that occurred to her. She laid the baby gently on the ground near the edge of the bluff, and then, without a backward look, she plunged into the undergrowth. The infant’s howl of outrage rang in her ears as she ran through the night toward the house. Please, dear God, she prayed silently, let him be safe—let whoever was singing find him and take him far, far away from Walker Ridge! Somewhere where he will be safe!

  There was a moment when it appeared as if Anne’s heartfelt prayer would go unheeded, as a long and loud rumble of thunder drowned out the infant’s cries. Hearing nothing but the sounds of the storm, the man in the woods, Morely Walker, shrugged his broad shoulders and decided somewhat foggily (he had consumed many pints of ale over the course of the evening) that he must have been hearing things. Rather unsteadily, Morely began to make his way once more toward his destination—the overseer’s cottage at Walker Ridge.

  Morely was a distant cousin of Sam’s. Somewhere back on the Walker family tree they shared a great-grandfather, and while Sam and most of the Walkers were respectable, hardworking gentlemen, occasionally within the family someone like Morely would appear—a charming rapscallion, unable to keep a penny he earned. Not that Morely was a ne’er-do-well; he was simply a handsome, amiable young man who just preferred drinking and gambling and decidedly unrespectable feminine company to anything even faintly resembling work. Orphaned at the tender age of twelve when his parents had been killed in an Indian raid, Morely had grown up at Walker Ridge, and John and Sam had ably administered the tobacco plantation left to him by his father until Morely had reached his majority.

  Unfortunately Morely had not the least head for business, and within two years he had managed to lose everything. Two years of riotous living and frankly bad management had left him deeply in debt at the age of twenty-three. Only Sam’s intervention had saved Morley’s plantation from the sale block. But while he could still claim he owned nine thousand fertile acres planted in tobacco and a charming little house, in actuality Sam controlled everything—the price Morley had had to pay to save the land.

  It had always been clearly understood that this was a temporary arrangement, that when Morely had proven himself a responsible and prudent young man, Sam would return the reins of power to him. Regrettably, in the six months that had passed since the debacle, Morely had shown no indication of changing his dissolute ways. In fact, if Sam hadn’t given him the overseer’s cottage at Walker Ridge in which to live and provided him with a nominal sum—which Morely promptly spent on ale and women—Morely would have been homeless and penniless.

  Since the family, with the exception of Sam, made no secret of the fact that they considered him a disgrace and a definite blot on the family honor, Morely saw no reason why he should make any attempt to change. And he hadn’t. He lived in the overseer’s cottage and spent most of his time drinking and wenching in a small, rough tavern about two miles away from Walker Ridge, where there was a tiny settlement nestled in the curve of the James River. This was where he had been this evening, and he had been making his wayward way home when he’d heard the infant’s cry. Having decided that he had imagined the noise, he had just taken two steps forward when the sound of a howling baby came unpleasantly clear to him.

  He froze, his ale-befuddled brain trying to make sense of what he had heard. Another angry scream galvanized him and had him stumbling in the direction from which the cry had come. As he left the patch of wood in which he had been traveling, the sky and landscape were suddenly lit up by a tremendous, jagged bolt of lightning. It was in that brief moment, as bright as midday, that, to his amazed horror, he spied the small, wiggling bundle lying near the edge of the bluff.

  In that split-second flash of light, Morely saw not another soul. Clearly the baby had been abandoned! Instinct drove Morely forward. When he reached the now squalling infant, with
the exaggerated care of a man who has had too much to drink, he set down his lantern and clumsily lifted up the swaddled form.

  He’d been hoping that he’d been imagining this entire event, but the squirming, screaming baby in his arms promptly dashed that notion. Helplessly he glanced around, expecting a distraught parent to appear at any second. No one did. He was alone on the bluff in the middle of the night, in the midst of one of the worst storms he had ever experienced, with a very angry infant in his arms.

  Any lingering effects of too many tankards of ale vanished, and in an instant Morely found himself stone, cold sober. His agile brain working furiously, he gazed uneasily at the dark, roiling water below him. There were only two reasons, he decided grimly, for him to have found a baby obviously abandoned on the bluff: the mother of the child had killed herself by leaping into the river, inexplicably leaving behind her infant, or the baby had been cold-bloodedly left to its fate. An even more grisly idea crossed his mind. Perhaps someone had intended the baby to disappear beneath those raging waters.

  A chill snaked down his spine, and his grip on the infant tightened protectively. His young face set, he picked up his lantern and left the bluff in a swift, long-legged stride.

  The baby’s cries had lessened to a heartrending little hiccup, and Morely found himself crooning a nonsensical litany of reassurance as he hurried through the night. His voice seemed to soothe the baby, and by the time they reached his cottage a few minutes later, the infant had fallen into a fitful slumber.

  Carefully setting the baby in a large black leather chair near the hearth, Morely coaxed the remaining coals into life and soon had a warm, leaping fire. He lit a whale-oil lamp on the mantel and then, gently laying aside the blue-andwhite blanket, for the first time took a good look at the infant.

  The baby was obviously newborn, the birthing blood barely dry on his tiny body, and Morely realized that his unexpected presence must have frightened off whoever had been on the bluff—whether a mother who had leaped to her death or someone with something far more sinister in mind.

  His eyes traveled over the baby, and Morely caught his breath when his gaze fell upon the long right foot and the six perfect toes. Except for Sam’s immediate family, he was the only one who knew the significance of those six toes. And he only knew because of his intimacy with the family.

  He could remember clearly the night, some five years ago, when he and Sam had been out hunting and had been caught far from home when night—and a sudden rainstorm—had descended upon them. They had eventually taken refuge in an old hunting shack, and once they had a fire going, they had shucked aside their dripping boots and clothing. Their feet warming near the fire, Morely had noticed Sam’s six toes and had exclaimed over them. Sam had half smiled and said, “I’m pleased you think them merely odd and not a mark of the devil—as some might, if it were common knowledge.” Sam had stared ruefully at his right foot. “I suppose I should be gratified by that sixth toe. It first manifested itself with my grandfather, who by way of my father passed it on to me. You might say that it is proof of my parentage.” He had glanced over to Morely and with a slight rising of his color had muttered, “I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself. There are many superstitious folk about, and I would not want my father and me to become objects of fear and loathing.”

  Morely had ardently sworn to keep his silence. The Salem witch trials and all the horrors that had accompanied them were not so very long ago—less than fifty years—and there were still the occasional cries of “Witch!” or “Warlock!” to be heard in the Colonies. Sam and his family were wise to keep the oddity of the six toes to themselves.

  His eyes still fastened on the baby’s sixth toe, Morely nodded to himself. That toe more than anything else confirmed that this child had to be Sam’s son. And Constance, he reminded himself uneasily, had not been happy about the baby that Letty was due to give birth to in a month or so. His throat grew tight. Sam was gone to Philadelphia on business, leaving Letty all alone with Constance. An ugly suspicion leaped to his mind.

  He didn’t want to credit the horrifying thought that curled through his brain. He considered briefly that the baby could be Sam’s bastard, but he immediately shook that idea away. If Sam had a mistress, he’d have known about it. Sam’s devotion to Letty was legendary, and it would be too much of a coincidence for Sam to have gotten both Letty and another woman pregnant almost simultaneously. No. As sure as he was that the sun would rise tomorrow, he knew that he was staring at Letty and Sam’s son. A son someone had left to perish on that lonely bluff at the edge of the river.

  His blue eyes anxious and undecided, Morely stared hard at the infant. What was he to do? If Constance was behind tonight’s mischief, he dared not approach the big house with the baby. And there were Letty’s feelings to consider—if this baby wasn’t hers, if Sam had gotten another woman pregnant, Morely definitely didn’t want to be the one to disillusion her about her husband. Constance’s probable involvement worried him a great deal. If she had tried to dispose of the child once, what was to stop her from trying again? And who would believe his wild accusations? With his reputation? He swallowed painfully, for the first time regretting his lackadaisical ways.

  He owed everything to Sam and his family. Could he betray their many kindnesses to him by giving voice to his dark suspicions about Constance? What if he were wrong? What if the baby’s possession of six toes was just an incredible coincidence? What if Sam had had nothing to do with this child’s conception? That it was just mere chance? The only problem with that thinking was that the nearest dwellings for several miles around were at Walker Ridge, indicating that someone on Sam’s plantation had given birth. And why would anyone so callously abandon a newborn, unless there was a powerful reason—such as gaining an entire fortune?

  The baby stirred and began to whimper, and Morely picked him up gently and began to rock him. He knew the baby needed sustenance, and putting aside his unpleasant thoughts, he glanced around his small quarters for something to feed an infant. His mind was blank, until he remembered the small jug of milk that a slave from the big house had left in his larder just this evening—that and some molasses would have to do.

  Feeding the baby was difficult, but using a clean cotton rag soaked in the milky concoction, Morley managed to get quite a bit down the baby. It helped that the baby suckled strongly on the cotton rag each time it was put to his mouth. When the baby finally fell asleep again, Morely laid him once more in the big chair and began to consider his next step.

  If Sam were here, he’d take the baby to him—Sam would know what to do. Sam would settle the business and get to the bottom of it. But Sam was in Philadelphia and wasn’t expected back for another few weeks. Keeping the baby here in his own house was out of the question. Not only did he suspect that the child was in danger, but he had neither the knowledge nor the means to care for an infant.

  Since Sam wasn’t available, Morely needed a safe place to take the baby temporarily until he could talk to Sam. But where? Whom could he trust?

  His brow furrowed in thought, Morely paced the confines of the room, mentally reviewing all his various friends and relatives. Eventually his choice came down to his cousin, Andrew Walker. Andrew owned his own private little school on the outskirts of the tiny hamlet of Petersburg at the point of the Appamattuck River. Andrew was a kind man and well respected in the small settlement. And Petersburg was a perfect place for the baby—far enough away from Walker Ridge for the infant’s safety, but not so far that it would be difficult to retrieve the baby when the situation was resolved. If he were lucky, he could make it to Petersburg in under five days. If he were lucky.

  Andrew and his wife, Martha, were perfect, too—Martha had suffered through several stillbirths, and after over ten years of marriage, they were beginning to become resigned to being childless. The latest generation of Walkers did not seem to be very prolific, Morely conceded with a wry twist to his mouth. At any rate, Andrew and Martha would be
thrilled to take care of the baby for however long it was necessary.

  I must swear them to secrecy about the toes, he reminded himself suddenly. If his suspicions were correct and Constance were to learn of this baby with the six toes, it could prove dangerous. And if he gave Andrew and Martha the same reasons that Sam had given him for keeping quiet about the odd feature, he was certain they would eagerly comply. They would, no doubt, be certain that the baby was his and that he was dismayed and ashamed of that sixth toe.

  Morely glanced at the sleeping child, and his face softened. What did it matter what they thought of him, if the babe was safe? His reputation was already in tatters. What was one more black mark?

  His mind made up, Morely set about preparing for his journey. Since his position as overseer was a courtesy at best and since there were many days during which he was too drunk to work, no one would think too much of the fact that he had taken himself off for a while. Morely winced. It would simply be assumed that he was sleeping off the effects of his latest drunken stupor in the arms of one of his many light-skirted wenches.

  The decision to take the child to Andrew and Martha did not come lightly to him. Athousand doubts deviled him, and he worried that he was leaping to the wrong conclusions—that there was a reasonable explanation for the newborn baby’s presence on that bluff. One fact, however, was inescapable: if he had not chanced along tonight, the infant sleeping so soundly just a few feet away from him would have died.