Deceive Not My Heart Read online

  Morgan shrugged. "Prudence is the last thing that Ashley possesses! But don't worry, Rob—Ashley is going to find himself on the first ship back to England. I'll see to it, rest assured!" His features taking on a wry expression he added, "Which is precisely what our uncle has written asking me to do. It seems they argued over Ashley's debts and rakehell living, as usual, and uncle disowned him... again. Cooler thought has now prevailed, and he wants me to find Ashley and convince him to return home."

  The trio of young men exchanged a knowing glance, all three thinking with a certain amount of sympathy of their uncle, the Baron of Trevelyan, whose heir was their abominable cousin Ashley. Looking at the trio as they sat at the round oak table, it was obvious they were brothers. All three had the same dark hair, black as a raven's wing, which they had inherited from their Creole mother; each had the Trevelyan chin, determined and very masculine, that had come to them from their father, as well as Matthew Slade's rather lowering black eyebrows and deep-set eyes. The two older brothers had the same piercing blue eyes as did their father, but Dominic's eyes were a cool beautiful gray.

  Morgan was by far the most striking: his eyes seemed brighter, more vivid than his younger brothers'; his skin darker; his cheekbones higher and more pronounced; his nose stronger; and his mouth fuller. Robert was the truly handsome one, his features so symmetrical that one adoring young lady had likened him to a Greek god—much to his intense embarrassment, for Robert was somewhat shy and retiring despite his stunning handsomeness. Dominic was every bit as good looking as his older brothers, but his face still showed a youthful prettiness, and he would never be quite as handsome as Robert. Yet, there was a mischievous curve to Dominic's mouth and a teasing sparkle in the gray eyes that made him particularly appealing to the opposite sex.

  The Slade family was a large one. In addition to the three brothers there were still at home the lively, rambunctious ten-year-old twins, Alexandre and Cassandre. A married sister, Alicia, lived in Tennessee with her planter husband and growing family.

  It would seem on the surface that the Slade family had been untouched by tragedy of any kind, but that would be untrue. Nineteen-year-old Andre had been killed three years ago in a senseless duel, and there had been an even younger sister, Maria, who had died of malaria at the age of twelve, only the past year. And then there had been Morgan's tragic, ill-fated marriage....

  Noelle, their petite, pretty mother entered the room and the three gentlemen all rose and greeted her as she was seated by the white-garbed Negro butler. At forty-five years of age, Noelle Slade was still a beautiful woman, a bit plump it was true, but then eight children were bound to have left their mark upon her. Her face was that of a true Creole beauty from New Orleans—smooth, magnolia skin and dark, sparkling eyes with an abundance of shining black hair arranged in soft curls about her smiling face. And like most Creole women, her family was everything; she would have cheerfully slaughtered anyone who caused her husband or one of her children a moment's pain. Fortunately or unfortunately, it was a trait that had been passed on to her children. The Slades were intensely protective and loyal to one another—the man who had shot Andre had discovered this trait, to his regret, when he found himself face to face with a narrowed-eyed Morgan on the same dueling field where young Andre had died not twenty-four hours before. The man, a braggart and a bully who had forced the duel with Andre, had not left the field alive.

  Noelle had just been served her coffee and toast by a servant when the head of the family wandered in. Matthew Slade, his rich chestnut hair liberally sprinkled with gray, was still an imposing figure of a man despite having turned fifty-four some months ago. He was tall, and it was from him that his sons, Morgan in particular, got their long, lithe bodies.

  Greetings were once again exchanged and then the conversation became general for several moments, as Matthew decided on breakfast and busied himself with pouring cream into his coffee. It was Dominic, ever eager to be the first with any news, who brought up the subject of Ashley.

  "Ashley's in America, father! And Morgan is going to put him on a ship for England after he blows his brains out—uncle wrote and asked him to do it!" Dominic stopped abruptly, looking a bit sheepish, and then added, "I mean uncle wants him put on a ship for England. It's Morgan who wants to blow out his brains!"

  At the mention of Ashley's name, Noelle's dark eyes flashed and with surprising violence she said, "That swine! I almost wish Ashley would get his brains blown out... at least then his brother could inherit!"

  Morgan smiled grimly. "If you wish it done, I am at your service."

  Uncertainly Noelle looked at him. "Mon fils, let it be," she said at last, her own volatile temper evaporating as quickly as it had surfaced.

  Morgan sent her a cool, mocking smile. "Of course, if it is what you wish." His reply was polite enough but there was a note in his voice that caused her to glance at him sharply. Morgan had always tended to be headstrong; even as a child he had been aloof, going his own way, but there was a difference these days. Once she had known his every thought, had shared his youthful dreams, and despite his iron-willed personality, there had been a sweetness in him—especially with women... but no longer. Not since the terrible end of his marriage barely two years ago....

  The conversation switched to other subjects and the meal continued in leisurely harmony, but an hour later, as she sat in a small room which looked out towards the cotton field behind Bonheur, Noelle's troubled thoughts were on her eldest son.

  He is so wary and hard, so far away from us, she mused unhappily. It is almost as if he has erected a barrier to protect himself from women, even from me. Her small face tightened and for a moment she looked quite ferocious. That Stephanie! I could kill her, if she were not dead already! To treat my good Morgan so, to break his heart, to shame him, to take away his child, and to destroy his trust in women! Mon Dieu! I would like to cut her heart in little ribbons!

  Staring blindly out the window, oblivious to the soothing view before her, she recalled vividly the day Morgan had come to her, his face alight with joy and pleasure, and nearly stammering with excitement he had burst out with the news that Stephanie Du Boise had consented to marry him. Noelle had been full of reservations from the beginning—he was too young; Stephanie, hardly eighteen, was also too young. Noelle was very much afraid that Stephanie had been as attracted to Morgan's wealth as much as his person. The Du Boises, while of good blood, were poor, and it was known all about Natchez that the girls had to marry money. Stephanie was a lovely girl, that Noelle couldn't have denied, and at first she did seem sweet and charming.

  Certainly Morgan, just twenty, had been plainly besotted by her blonde beauty and great green eyes—there was nothing he wouldn't have done for her. And Noelle had stilled her doubts and had smiled to herself at the sight of her usually determined son ready to do anything that his adored bride had wanted.

  It was a marriage that should have brought them happiness, and if Stephanie had truly loved Morgan, it might have, Noelle reflected sadly. They had been young, Morgan deeply in love with his wife, and within a year there had been a healthy, handsome son. Thinking of her first grandchild, of Phillippe's first tottering steps and his happy gurgle as he had played in this very room, her brown eyes misted with tears and her throat closed with a tight ache of pain. Mon Dieu, does the pain ever go away? she wondered. Did Morgan, behind that cool, uncaring exterior of his, grieve too? Noelle knew he did—sometimes when he thought he was unobserved, an expression of unutterable misery would cross his chiseled features—and she guessed that he must be remembering his little son. If he had been besotted with Stephanie, he had adored his son. How many times had she seen him put aside his growing air of maturity and like a child gambol on the floor with Phillippe? Too many times to think about, she decided tiredly.

  When had it all gone wrong? Noelle wondered. There had been no blight on the horizon in the beginning. Stephanie had appeared happy and contented and Morgan's feet never seemed to touch t
he ground.

  So when? When Morgan first began to talk of moving away from Bonheur? Of setting up his own residence, of building a fine home away from Natchez for his young family? Had it been then that Stephanie had shown the first signs of discontent? Or had it been because in that last year Morgan had left her alone with his family at Bonheur, not wanting to subject her to the rigors of carving out a new home in almost virgin territory, far away from any major city and the elegance and amusement she was used to.

  Thousand Oaks, as Morgan had proudly named the five thousand acres Matthew had given him as a wedding present, was not far from the Mississippi River and was situated midway between Natchez to the north and Baton Rouge to the south. Morgan had planned to make it as elegant and handsome as Bonheur for his young wife. Had it begun then? Or had it simply been that Morgan had been away and Steven Malincourt had been here in Natchez?

  Her small hand clenching into a fist, Noelle cursed again the day she had introduced Steven to her daughter-in-law. But how could she have known? She closed her eyes in anguish. To think that Stephanie could have deserted Morgan, who adored her, for a fortune hunter like Steven Malincourt! A man of a good family, it was true, but to take him over Morgan! To leave Morgan—completely unsuspecting when he arrived home full of joy at the thought of seeing his wife and son after a three-month absence—nothing but a hastily written note. The note had been brief and unnecessarily cruel, telling him of her sudden love for Steven and the galling, painful information that Phillippe would be returned to him as soon as he agreed to the divorce—and gave her a generous settlement.

  Never will I forget his face, Noelle thought with a shudder. Never! How the light died from his eyes, leaving them cold and empty, and how his face slowly hardened as if under the warm flesh and bone there existed only cold, icy steel. He had gone after them, naturally—not for Stephanie, for she had chosen her path, but for his son—and then fate had played its cruelest trick.

  When the fleeing lovers had left Bonheur, they had started their journey north by taking the notorious Natchez Trace. The Trace was often called the Devil's Backbone, and a treacherous deadly trail it was, with robbers, thieves, and all manner of wicked men lurking near every bend of the wilderness trail. The legends of robberies and murders and of vanished people were well known, but it was the way north. And Stephanie with her son and lover had taken it and met their violent deaths in the shady glen where Morgan had found them.

  For his sanity, Noelle was forever grateful that someone else had been with him, that he had not been alone when he had come across the mutilated bodies of his wife and son. He never spoke of it—it had been from Robert and Morgan's childhood companion, Brett Dangermond, that the family learned of Stephanie and Phillippe's tragic fate. They had been robbed, then carelessly murdered and left like so much refuse to be found by the next traveler on the Trace.

  Morgan had been so different after that. Oh, not that he had shut out his family entirely, but Noelle, watching him with a mother's concerned eye, saw the changes: the coolness that hadn't been there before; the way he could seldom bear to stay for more than a few weeks at Bonheur, as if it held too many painful memories; the hardness that crossed his face whenever a woman would attempt to flirt with him; and the cynical expression that appeared far too often in the sapphire blue eyes whenever marriage or eligible young ladies were mentioned.

  Noelle guessed that there were still women of a sort in his life—he was, after all, a virile, handsome young man—but it wouldn't have shocked or surprised her to discover that the females he now sought out were not precisely respectable. Certainly she was positive that there was no woman at present who could win his anguished, wary heart. Ah, Morgan, she thought despondently, will you ever love again? Or trust another woman?

  Morgan would have answered that question with a snort and a blunt, emphatic, No! But at the moment women were the last thing on his mind—he was too busy trying to explain tactfully to Dominic why he didn't need that young man's company when he sailed down the Mississippi River next Monday on his way to New Orleans.

  The two of them were in Morgan's bedchamber, not the same room he had shared with Stephanie, and Morgan was in the process of changing from his elegant, gray morning coat to the well-cut, brown frock coat and buckskin breeches that he frequently wore for riding.

  "Dom," he said patiently, "I do not need your very generous offer of help with Ashley. I appreciate it, but Ashley has very little to do with my current trip to New Orleans, and you know it. It's just a coincidence that he happens to be there at the same time I will be." Morgan suddenly grinned. "It is damned convenient, though. I would have disliked coming back from there to find uncle's letter, waiting for me, with the news of Ashley's presence in New Orleans and of his plea that I convince Ashley to return home to England."

  "But you do intend to darken his daylights before putting him on the ship for England, don't you?" Dominic persisted as he lounged casually on Morgan's bed.

  Morgan sent him a look. "More than likely, but I still don't need you along to make certain that I do it to your satisfaction."

  "I know that!" Dominic replied hotly. "But I want to watch you do it!"

  Morgan snorted. "What a bloody little savage you've turned out to be!"

  "No different than you, from what maman says!" Dominic shot back. "Oh, Morgan, please let me come! I promise I won't do anything to embarrass you. You know that I am very grown up for my age—even papa says my manners are very nice. Do let me come!"

  Morgan hesitated. Dominic was extremely difficult to resist when he made up his mind he wanted something, but thinking of the dangers that a wicked city like New Orleans could offer to a high-spirited, ripe-for-mischief young man like Dominic, he shook his head. "Next time." And when Dominic opened his mouth to protest further, Morgan added, "I promise. This trip has been planned for months and you know that I am not going to New Orleans for pleasure. Half the time I'll be closeted with estate agents, and there will be quite a few evenings when I meet with Spanish officials to discuss trade agreements. Dom, you'd find yourself at a standstill and bored in the bargain. Besides," Morgan finished lightly, "my dealings with Ashley will be a mere trifle, over in a few minutes, and then what would you do for the rest of the time, hmm?"

  Dominic hunched a shoulder. "I'd find something to do!"

  "Which is precisely why I'd rather you remain here!" Morgan murmured dryly as he pulled on a polished top boot. "Come along now and show me that prime bit of blood and bones our neighbor has for sale. A dapple gray stallion, I believe you said, with Arabian blood?"

  As horses were at the moment Dominic's premier passion, he eagerly followed his older brother's lead, and the trip to New Orleans vanished from his mind. They spent an agreeable morning together; much to Dominic's delight Morgan decided to buy the stallion.

  "I told you he'd make an excellent stud for your stables!" Dominic crowed when the deal had been struck and they rode back to Bonheur.

  "So you did, bratling," Morgan replied with a quick grin. The remainder of the day passed pleasantly and Morgan's trip to New Orleans was not mentioned again until that evening.

  It was late evening and everyone else in the family had retired. Morgan and his father were seated in cane-backed chairs on the veranda at the side of the house, enjoying one last cigar before retiring. The conversation was desultory between father and son until Matthew asked casually, "I know you intend to work out some sort of trading agreement with the Spaniards; does that mean you'll be seeing our ex-governor, Gayoso?"

  Morgan nodded. "It seems as good a place as any to start, don't you think? He knows our family and he knows that I am nominally a subject of Spain as long as I hold Thousand Oaks. We entertained him here at Bonheur while he was governor of Natchez, so it wouldn't be as if I were meeting the man for the first time."

  Matthew grunted and took a puff of his cigar. "Now that he's governor of New Orleans, do you think he'll try to bribe you to spy for Spain?"

&nbs
p; "Probably, if I hint that I'm agreeable to it... which, I might add, I'm not! A General James Wilkinson I am not!"

  "For God's sake, don't say things like that!" Matthew rumbled. "I'll admit there's rumor aplenty about Wilkinson's dealings with the Spaniards, but no one can prove anything. You'd best watch that tongue of yours or the general might feel compelled to defend the honor he's always trumpeting about."

  Morgan smiled in the encroaching darkness. "I don't fear Wilkinson, papa. Nor do I think he is man enough to challenge me to a duel—he knows I would accept and win! Besides, I'm certain that if I took the time, or the interest, I could prove that our general really is a spy for Spain. You forget that Phillip Nolan and I are friends of a sort."

  "I don't like that young man—never did!" Matthew said slowly. "It's not only his association with Wilkinson, but the way he makes a living. Catching wild horses in Spanish territory—what kind of life is that?"

  "It's a damn sight more honest than the way Wilkinson earns his!" Morgan shot back.

  "Mmm, you're probably right. At least Gayoso is a somewhat honorable man; be thankful it is he you will be dealing with in New Orleans and not Wilkinson."

  "True, but it might be easier with Wilkinson—all I would have to do would be to offer a big enough bribe! With Gayoso it doesn't always work that way," Morgan murmured."You don't think you'll have any trouble do you? Morgan, we need those wharves and warehouses in New Orleans—without them, it's going to be damned difficult!" Matthew said earnestly.

  Morgan sighed, aware of the problem as was everyone up and down the Mississippi River. New Orleans was the only feasible port for the dispersal of their goods, and without Spanish permission to use the port, their goods—cotton, indigo, and even furs—would be worthless. The Treaty of San Lorenzo, signed in 1796 between Spain and the fledgling United States of America, guaranteed the right of deposit for the Americans and their uncontested use of the Mississippi River for three years, but time was running out.