A Heart for the Taking Read online

  Chance smiled coolly in Jonathan’s direction. “I have often wondered how you explained your losses that night.”

  Jonathan’s face congealed with fury, and he took a threatening step forward. It was his mother who recalled him to his senses by saying sharply to Chance, “How dare you speak to my son in that manner!” She looked angrily over at Sam. “Are you going to just stand there and let him get away with insulting your only brother in that manner?”

  Sam shook his head wearily. “I have told you a hundred times, Constance, that I am not going to be drawn into the middle of this senseless feud between the pair of them. And as for Chance insulting Jonathan, I believe,” he said dryly, “that it was Jonathan who cast the first stone. Now then, before we subject our guests to any more of our inexcusable rudeness, I suggest that we bid Chance good-bye and continue on our way.” Sam looked at Chance. “In view of the circumstances, I think it would be best if we postponed introductions to our guests to a later date, do you agree?”

  Chance nodded curtly and, after one long, insolent glance at Fancy, turned on his heel and strode swiftly down the wharf. Feeling as if she had just survived a fall from a high cliff, Fancy let her breath out in a rush and only then became aware of how tightly she had been clinging to Jonathan’s arm. Embarrassed and feeling a little silly, she loosened her hold instantly and said with an attempt at lightness, “Well! You did promise us some exciting moments in the Colonies, Jonathan—I just did not think that they would start the moment we stepped off the ship! I was fearful for one awful moment that you were going to come to the blows with that impertinent creature.”

  Jonathan laughed, his good humor restored now that Chance’s tall figure was lost among the shifting crowd on the wharf. Taking Fancy’s hand with a gleam in his eyes, he brushed his lips across her soft skin. “That was not exactly the kind of adventure I had in mind for you and your sister, but I am happy that you have been so kind as to make light of my deplorably bad manners. Chance is no friend of mine—there is a great deal of bad blood between us, and I am sorry that you and Ellen had to see such an ugly scene. Will you forgive me?” He glanced meltingly over at Ellen. “And you, too, my dear?”

  Ellen sent him an uncertain smile, her eyes very big and round in her face. “It was rather shocking, wasn’t it?”

  Straightening the folds of her skirts, Fancy said quietly, “Yes, it was, but we will not repine on it. And as for forgiving you . . . there is nothing to forgive, Jonathan, it was just an unfortunate occurrence.” Looking at Sam, she flashed him a dimpled smile. “We shall talk no more of it. Instead, Mr. Walker shall escort us to the carriage and we shall all forget about Chance Walker! I doubt that after today he will be brazen enough to even show us his face again.”

  “Oh, he is brazen enough!” Jonathan said. “I doubt that there is anything that he would find too brazen to do.”

  Sam looked troubled, and ignoring Jonathan’s comment, he muttered, “I am sorry that Chance has made such a bad impression on you. He is, perhaps, blunt and inclined to speak his mind, but there is no evil in him.”

  Jonathan’s brow sketched upward. “So you say, but you will not find me in agreement with you, brother.”

  Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Constance rushed in with, “Oh, fiddle! I am sick to death of hearing that man’s name. He has been nothing but a trial to this family since he was born. It grieves me to say it, Samuel, but he is just like that no-good drunken father of his. And it matters not to hear you say that Morely hasn’t touched a drop in over thirty years. To me, Chance and Morely, too, will always be a blot on the Walker family name.” Having done her part to further blacken Chance’s character, Constance suddenly smiled charmingly and said, “Oh my, how I do run on! But, now, please, let us follow the baroness’s lead and just forget about Chance Walker and his coarse ways.”

  Sam bowed to her wishes and, smiling ruefully, began to usher the ladies and his brother toward the waiting carriage. Regaling them with tales of how Richmond had begun in 1637 as a trading post because of its location at the head of navigation on the James River, Sam effortlessly put the unpleasant scene with Chance behind them. Fancy, her topaz eyes gleaming with interest, listened carefully as Sam explained that some years later Richmond had been the site of Byrd’s Warehouse, but that the actual town hadn’t been laid out until 1737 by Colonel William Byrd. Staring at the village, which was scattered over several hills on the north side of the James River, as the carriage moved smartly down the street, Fancy was thoroughly fascinated to think that this bustling port town had humbly started out merely as a place to trade furs and trinkets with the Indians.

  Thinking of the Indians, she could not help but recall Chance Walker’s earlier statements. A little uneasy, she asked suddenly, “ ’Tis likely that those Indians which Mr. Walker spoke of would attack us?”

  Jonathan snorted derisively, but it was Sam who answered slowly, “Living in the wilderness as we do, far away from any town, anything is possible, my dear Lady Merrivale. But I do not believe we have anything to fear. The raids are well over a hundred miles away from us, in the Ohio River Valley. I doubt that any of the Shawnees or Mingos would push very deep in our direction.” He smiled reassuringly. “While we have suffered attacks in the past and have even lost members of our family to the Indians, the Walkers have long been known as friends to the Indian. You have little to fear at Walker Ridge. The plantation is large and well armed, and there are numerous slaves and indentured servants about, as well as several other men who work for me. We are too strong for any Indians to think seriously of attacking us.”

  “Not unless Chance Walker were to incite them against us,” Jonathan said grimly.

  Sam sighed. “I thought,” he said quietly, “that we had decided to drop the subject of Chance Walker?”

  * * *

  Chance wouldn’t have been surprised at the way Jonathan continued to defame his name. After all, bitter experience had taught him that vilifying and destroying another’s character was simply Jonathan’s way. Chance expected little else from the other man—lies, hints, and innuendo were the young Mr. Walker’s stock-in-trade.

  Chance tried not to dwell very often on his rancorous feud with the heir to the Walker fortune, but Jonathan, and his hatred of him, were never far from Chance’s mind. Even the sight of the seductive little creature who had clung so confidingly to Jonathan’s arm couldn’t keep away the dark, ugly thoughts that deviled him as he left the wharf a few minutes after the Walker party had departed in their carriage.

  He, like most of even the slightest acquaintances of the Walkers, had been aware that Jonathan was returning home from England and that he was bringing a baroness with him. Constance had trumpeted the news to all and sundry for days after she had received Jonathan’s letter imparting the thrilling news. Her conversation had been full of “when the baroness arrives” or “the baroness and her younger sister will be staying with us . . . an extended visit, of course,” or “The baroness is a widow, you know,” which was followed with such an arch look that the listener was left with the impression that a betrothal would soon be in the offing.

  Chance hadn’t paid Constance much heed—he never did. His feelings for Jonathan’s mother were only marginally less lethal than those he felt for her son. He had known that Jonathan had gone to England presumably to find a suitable bride, and he hadn’t been surprised to learn that Jonathan had managed to snare the interest of a highborn lady. The fact that Jonathan was heir to one of the largest fortunes in Virginia certainly did not diminish his appeal. Jonathan was, Chance conceded grimly, a handsome man. He knew to his great and bitter cost precisely how charming the other man could be. So charming, in fact, he thought with a deadly glint in his blue eyes as he entered a small tavern near the wharf, that other men’s wives forgot their vows and found him irresistible.

  Scowling blackly at the inoffensive tavern maid who hurried to meet him as he selected a table in a dark corner of the smoke-filled room and slid i
nto a battered oak chair, Chance jerked his thoughts away from the path they had inevitably followed. But having pushed Jonathan out of his mind, he discovered to his annoyance that he couldn’t so easily erase the enchanting image of the slim woman in the saucily tilted beaver hat. The baroness, he thought, his upper lip curling into a sneer. No doubt Jonathan’s bride-to-be.

  She certainly had come as a shock to Chance. He had pictured an older woman, stiff-necked with pride and condescension. He still couldn’t quite believe that the young and undeniably lovely creature Jonathan had been escorting ashore could be the baroness. She definitely hadn’t looked like a widow, and the almost virginal air about her would make anyone, any man, Chance thought dryly, wonder if her late husband had been a monk.

  Becoming aware of the hovering tavern maid, Chance smiled wryly at her and ordered some ale. Leaning back in the chair and stretching his long, buckskin-clad legs out in front of him, he attempted to focus on something else, but when the maid returned with a pewter tankard full of foaming ale a few minutes later, he was still speculating about Jonathan’s baroness. The beguiling image she had made as she had leaned at the railing of the ship wouldn’t leave his mind.

  He’d known the instant he’d spied her who she had been. It had been no secret which ship Jonathan and his guests had taken from England, and Chance had known, from talking to Morely, that Sam and Constance would be meeting them this morning. He’d had his own reasons for being there at that time—the same ship that had brought the others to Virginia had been bringing him the start of what he hoped would be the foundation of an impressive Thoroughbred stud farm—a stud farm he had begun carving out of the same ten thousand acres he had won on the throw of the dice from Jonathan some eight years previously.

  In the hold of the ship was a big bay stallion out of the brilliant and undefeated Flying Childers, as well as two mares that had been bred early that spring to Matchem, a grandson of the famous Godolphin Arabian. Their arrival in Virginia would be the culmination of a dream Chance had long held. He had been counting the days until he actually laid eyes on the animals that, after he had decided on the bloodlines he wanted, had been selected by his agent in London.

  The meeting with Jonathan had left a sour taste in his mouth, dimming some of his pleasure at the arrival of his horses. The sight of the baroness smiling with Jonathan had aroused a whole host of emotions he found distinctly irritating. Chance envied no man, not even the heir to the great Walker fortune. But as he had stared up at the slim figure in the tobacco brown gown as she had leaned against the railing of the ship and watched the expressions that crossed her lively features as she had laughed and chatted with the other young woman (the younger sister, he had thought fleetingly), he had become aware of an odd pang deep in his gut. The idea of Jonathan having possession of all that fragile beauty woke the sleeping demons inside of him, and the bitter taste of bile had risen in his throat.

  He was appalled by his emotions, furious to discover that for one brief moment he did envy his enemy, that he wished, to his furious astonishment, that this beguiling little creature had come all the way from England to be with him. He had been filled with contempt at himself and an equal amount of contempt for the young woman at the railing. Didn’t she know what kind of man she was considering marrying? Or didn’t she care? As long as he was rich enough, did it matter to her that Jonathan Walker was a scoundrel, a bald-faced liar, and a seducer of other men’s wives? That there was blood on his hands?

  Chance let out an angry breath. What the devil did it matter to him if she married a black-hearted villain? The baroness no doubt knew exactly what sort of man she was contemplating marrying, and if the haughty expression she had worn on that lovely face of hers had been any indication of her nature, she and Jonathan Walker deserved each other.

  It took an effort, but eventually Chance was able to banish the baroness and Jonathan Walker from his mind. Let Satan take ’em! he thought contemptuously as he swallowed the last of his ale and rose from the table. They were two of a kind and he despised both of them.

  Intent now on finally seeing his purchases, he left the tavern and walked with that long-legged stride of his back toward the ship. Shortly, after a brief exchange with the quartermaster, he learned that he had arrived just in time—his horses were being unloaded almost immediately.

  Chance watched anxiously as each animal, wrapped securely in heavy webbing, was swung aloft and lowered carefully to the wooden dock. A pleased smile crossed his dark face at the first sight of his stallion. The animal had survived the crossing well, and though a little thin, his coat dull and coarse, the clean-limbed, long-bodied majesty of a wellbred Thoroughbred was plainly evident. The mares, a fineboned chestnut and a tall black (a rare color for a Thoroughbred), seemed in much the same condition. They still had to make the journey to Devil’s Own, his burgeoning plantation on the James River, but at least now he would be overseeing their feed and care.

  The horses safely unloaded, Chance glanced around impatiently, wondering where Hugh and Morely could be—they had promised to be here to help him. The thought had hardly crossed his mind before he caught sight of two tall figures walking swiftly in his direction. The younger man was garbed much as he was, the older more soberly dressed in a dark gray suit of drab, a black stock tied neatly around his neck, and a three-cornered hat sitting on his unpowdered head. Both men wore their hair neatly clubbed in a queue at the nape of their necks.

  At the sight of them, an easy smile curved Chance’s lips. Hugh, the younger man, was his closest friend, while Morely, Hugh’s father and more than likely his own, though he had never admitted it, had been guiding his steps and hovering over him for as long as he could remember. A faint shadow crossed Chance’s dark features. He’d often heard the tale of how Morely had shown up at his adopted parents’ home with a squalling infant in his arms. Morely had never admitted that he was Chance’s father, but he had also never explained how he had come to have possession of the infant. Nor had he ever offered any clue as to who the child’s mother might be.

  Despite some resemblance between them, a resemblance shared by most of the widespread Walker clan, Chance didn’t honestly believe that Morely was his father. There was no reason for Morely to continue to remain silent about the issue. Everyone firmly believed, and had right from the beginning, that Chance was Morely’s bastard son. It would have been much easier for Morely to admit to being Chance’s father than to remain mysteriously close-mouthed about the matter, but that was precisely what he did. And while Chance had put away much of the speculation about his own birth years ago, he sometimes wondered, as now, what role Morely had really played in the events surrounding his entrance into the world. Was Morely his father? And if not, who was? And why had his father denied his existence all these years?

  A teasing comment from Hugh jerked him from his musings. A wide smile creasing his handsome face, Hugh said merrily, “So these are the nags that you have commandeered us to help you deliver to Devil’s Own!”

  “Nags?” Chance questioned with a mocking lift of his brow. “Have you no shame, denigrating in that cruel manner some of the finest horseflesh to reach the Colonies in recent memory?”

  His gaze fastened avidly on the bay stallion, Hugh let out a deep sigh of pure appreciation. “Pay me no heed. I am just envious. Even after six weeks at sea, his quality shows through. Next spring you shall have horsemen from miles around wanting to breed their mares to that fellow. And as for the mares”—his eyes moved knowledgeably over them—“I think you should send your agent in London a bonus. He did very well by you.”

  “Hugh is right,” Morely said, his own gaze roaming over the restive horses, “they are a fine trio and I think in years to come will repay your initial investment handsomely.”

  There were now several silver strands in Morely’s dark hair, and his face was attractively lined, the passing years gently revealed. He still moved easily with a quick, lithe stride, and while his middle had thickened sligh
tly, time had treated him kindly.

  Hugh looked very like him at the same age. There was not a half-an-inch difference in their heights, and Hugh had inherited his father’s build, as well as his dark hair and the Walker blue eyes. At twenty-seven, Hugh was the eldest of Morely’s four children, and he had long ago developed an unshakable case of hero worship for Chance. The fact that Chance might very well be his own half-brother only added to his allure to the younger man. Since Hugh was an extremely amiable and likable fellow, their friendship was long-standing.

  “Hmm, I am glad that you approve,” Chance replied to Morely, his own gaze resting pleasurably on the horses. “And I hope that your words prove prophetic.”

  After Chance had settled with the quartermaster, the three men, each leading one of the horses, walked swiftly from the wharf. They headed directly to the small livery stable that was situated on the western edge of the town and from whence they would depart on Friday. Adjoining the stable was a tidy little tavern, the Cock’s Crow, where Chance often stayed when he had business in Richmond. This was their destination once the horses had been settled in their temporary quarters.

  It wasn’t until the three men were sprawled comfortably in the tiny private room at the side of the tavern that Chance spoke of the meeting with Jonathan. Each man had a large tankard filled with ale in front of him; Morely had lit his long-stemmed pipe, and the fragrant odor of fine Virginian tobacco drifted in the room.

  Fiddling with the handle of his tankard, Chance said abruptly, “Had you arrived a few minutes earlier this morning, you would have had a chance to meet Jonathan’s baroness.”

  Morely sat up straighter. “You saw her . . . and Jonathan?”

  Chance nodded. “And Mrs. Constance Walker and Sam, too.”

  “What does she look like?” Hugh asked idly. “Long in the tooth and horse-faced, I trust?”

  Staring at the scarred pine table in front of him, Chance said slowly, “Actually, no. She was, in fact, quite a tempting-looking little morsel. So tempting, in fact, that I have a mind to see if she tastes as sweet as she appears.”