Stepping inside the taproom with its thick wooden beams and narrow doors and windows, Morgan was reminded of similar places in England and France—the air was blue with smoke from the cigars and cheroots; the smell of ale and whiskey and the appetizing aroma of roasting beef and baking hams assailed his nostrils. He recognized a few people from town, but most of the patrons were strangers to him. Finding a small oak table in a secluded corner, he settled back comfortably in the wooden chair and prepared to relax and watch his fellow patrons. After ordering a glass of Monongahela rye whiskey, he lit a cheroot and glanced idly around the taproom, his experienced eye appraising and judging the other inhabitants, the obvious travelers, the merchants from town, and the few young bucks who preferred the easy atmosphere of the tavern to exclusive places in town.
He had just taken his first sip of the strong rye whiskey when Gaylord and two companions lurched into the taproom. It was obvious that Gaylord had been drinking as could be seen from the unsteady sway in his gait when he approached the bar that ran along one side, and Morgan cursed under his breath. Gaylord Easton was the last person he wished to meet tonight! So far, he had managed to avoid a direct challenge from that hot-tempered young man, but judging Gaylord's condition tonight, he rather doubted that a confrontation could be averted if Gaylord spotted him.
Gaylord didn't see Morgan in the murky gloom of the taproom at first, and as he and his companions took a table on the other side of the room, Morgan hoped he would escape detection. For a while, it appeared he might. Gaylord's back was to him, and as that young man seemed intent upon drowning his sorrows in glass after glass of whiskey, Morgan relaxed slightly, thinking he could either outwait Gaylord or slip out unnoticed. He didn't want to have to kill the young fool in a senseless, unavoidable duel.
Unfortunately, his chance for escape was foiled when one of Gaylord's companions looked across the room and recognized him. The other man, a fair-haired youth of about twenty, instantly leaned over the table and said something in Gaylord's ear that caused him to jerk around and stare blearily in Morgan's direction. Morgan swore under his breath as Gaylord erupted to his feet and began a determined, if stumbling, walk towards him.
His mind working coolly as it had in the past when he had found himself in a tight position, Morgan decided that the one way to avoid bloodshed was to let Gaylord challenge him. As the challenged one, Morgan then had the right to choose weapons, time and place. If luck was with him, he could turn this dangerous, silly situation into a farce.
Gaylord reached his table and slamming both hands down hard on the table, he said aggressively, "You, sir, are a scoundrel and a blackguard!"
His blue eyes locked on Gaylord's flushed, handsome face, Morgan took a deliberate sip of his whiskey and then asked indifferently, "Oh? And why is that?"
Taken aback, Gaylord's dark young features expressed puzzlement "Well, because..." he began uncertainly and then stopped in confusion. He was very drunk and his thoughts were foggy, but he was quite certain he had just grievously insulted his successful rival. Why wasn't the man reacting? Deciding he hadn't made himself clear enough, he blustered, "You have stolen the heart of the woman I love! Only the basest dastard would do such a thing!"
Morgan sighed. What in the hell was he going to do with this hare-brained rapscallion? Even if his emotions were not involved, he wasn't about to have Melinda's name bandied about in a common taproom by a drunken fool. Eyeing Gaylord's gaudy yellow satin waistcoat with ill-concealed amusement, Morgan thought swiftly and then said coolly, "If I am a blackguard and a scoundrel, as well as a base dastard, what then are you? A trumpeting fool? Or perhaps just an ass-eared dunce?"
It was brutal, but it had the desired effect. Like one struck by lightning, Gaylord stiffened and burst out hotly, "And you, sir, are insulting! Name your seconds! I shall not let this too pass!"
Morgan leaned back further in his chair, and after flicking an ash from his cheroot, while Gaylord waited in simmering silence, he finally returned lazily, "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary. Seconds will not resolve this between us, will they?"
"By God, no!" Gaylord shot back furiously.
"Then may I offer a suggestion?" Morgan glanced up to the angry young man and at Gaylord's curt nod, he continued unhurriedly, "As the challenged man, I have the right to name the place and the time and the weapons... and what better place or time than here and now?"
Gaylord was too angry to think, but he did send a questioning look around the crowded room. "Here? In the tavern?"
His blue eyes glinting with mockery, and his face very dark and enigmatic in the gloom of the room, Morgan drawled, "Perhaps not right here—the garden adjacent should do very nicely, don't you think?"
"Absolutely! Name your weapons!" Gaylord said stiffly, the impending duel and the danger involved clearing his head rather effectively.
"Fists," Morgan said softly.
"Fists!" Gaylord repeated incredulously. "What are you, some kind of riverboat brawler? A gentleman doesn't fight a duel with his fists!"
The blue eyes suddenly hard and a dangerous smile breaking across the rakish features, Morgan murmured softly, "You've already said I'm no gentleman."
Gaylord gulped, instantly wishing he hadn't let the liquor plunge him into this predicament. He couldn't back out, and so taking a deep breath, he said with an attempt at bravado, "Very well. I suppose it is what I should have expected from your likes."
Now, Morgan had been very patient and to a certain extent he sympathized with the young fool—a broken heart is not easy to soothe—but his temper was beginning to soar and in a level tone he promised grimly, "One more word, and I'm afraid I might be compelled to kill you instead of merely teaching you the lesson you so richly deserve!"
Fortunately, Gaylord seemed disinclined to press the issue, and within seconds the two men, followed by Gaylord's companions, were standing at the side of the tavern. It was almost pitch-black outside, the waning moon only a thin curve of silver in the sky, but the feeble glow from the narrow windows of the tavern itself shed enough light for Morgan to see the others distinctly.
From the tavern came the occasional sound of a clinking glass and the rise and fall of conversation and laughter, but outside where the four men stood, there was a taut, tense silence. Gaylord was nervous, and it was apparent to Morgan that his two companions were definitely feeling ill at ease and uncertain.
He didn't recognize the two other young men, but that wasn't surprising—he could probably give them a good ten years advantage, and in the last five or six years Natchez hadn't seen a great deal of him. They looked like what they evidently were, a couple of high-spirited youths out for any lark, but Morgan suspected there wasn't any real evil in them—for that matter in young Easton either. His summation proved to be correct, as one of the young men, a short, dark-haired fellow, said nervously, "Um, if it's acceptable to you, sir, I'll act as your second. The name is Blanchard, sir, Evan Blanchard."
Morgan nodded and replied, "That's very kind of you. And as that little technicality has been settled, shall we begin?"
Gaylord pulled uneasily at his starched cravat and blurted out, "What exactly did you have in mind?"
Thoughtfully, Morgan glanced around the area. It was fairly clear of obstacles, the ground packed from years of passage by human feet, and the only shrubbery a few straggling oaks. "I suggest we have our duel here. Fists shall be the weapons, Blanchard and your friend shall act as witnesses and seconds. Whoever draws first blood will consider himself satisfied. Fair enough?"
Gaylord gave a stiff nod, and as the first shock of finding himself actually challenging his rival for Melinda's hand was lessening, he grew more confident. A patronizing note creeping into his voice, he said, "I'm considered to be very handy with my fives... and you are at least ten years older... are you certain you wish for such a physical confrontation?"
Morgan stifled a snort of laughter, and keeping his face straight he murmured, "Oh, I think I shall manage.
Thank you, though, for your concern." If the young fool thought that at thirty-three he was old and decrepit, Morgan would just have to show him the error of his ways. Barroom brawls and hand fighting were no strangers to Morgan—not with the dangerous life he had lived these past years. More than once it had been only his punishing right cross between himself and death or imprisonment, but there was no way he was going to explain that to this arrogant puppy.
The two men were fairly evenly matched—Morgan was perhaps a few inches taller, but Gaylord was more powerfully built—and in an increasingly tense silence, they prepared for the duel. Unhurriedly Morgan shrugged out of the elegantly cut gray jacket he was wearing, and just as calmly unhooked his watch with its gold chain from his white Marseilles waistcoat, the little crucifix dangling at the other end of the chain. Silently he handed the objects to the waiting Blanchard and then set about undoing the exquisitely arranged, starched cravat at his neck.
Morgan's movements were sure and deft, almost indifferent, whereas Gaylord performed the same sequence of disrobing with short, jerky bursts of angry energy, his sense of injustice growing with every moment. By the time both men were in their shirtsleeves and ready to actually begin the fight, Gaylord had whipped himself into a fine, raging temper, and, finally facing his enemy across the small space that separated them, he snapped, "You will not marry Melinda! She has promised her heart to me, and I shall not stand idly by and let you marry her!"
Inwardly Morgan sighed and was very tempted to tell the young fool that he could have his bloody Melinda—any desire that Morgan may have had to marry that particular young lady had faded with every passing moment he spent in her prattling, empty-headed company. But essentially being a gentleman, he wasn't about to renege on his offer to marry, although he damned well wished he hadn't been quite so impetuous in asking for her dainty little hand.
Hiding his growing impatience for the entire silly episode, he merely remarked quietly, "That remains to be seen. But in the meantime, I would remind you that the young woman's name you bandy about so freely has accepted my offer."
"But she shall not marry you!" Gaylord snarled. "You may think you have won for the moment, but we'll see whom she marries in the end!"
Morgan shrugged and raised one black eyebrow quizzically, "If you've finished with your harangue, shall we begin?"
"By God, yes!"
It was an uneven fight from the beginning. Gaylord may have had righteous wrath on his side and a more powerful, younger body, but he was no match for Morgan's iron sinews and steel-sprung muscles, as he soon found out. For a tall man, Morgan was swift and light on his feet; he was also deadly with his fists, and while Gaylord managed to land one wild swipe in a bruising blow to Morgan's lean cheek, Morgan brought the extraordinary duel to a quick end.
Dancing expertly out of reach of Gaylord's maddening swings, Morgan watched intently for the opening he wanted. It came within a few seconds of the start of the fight, and with lethal accuracy his right fist connected with Gaylord's handsome chin. The blow rocked Gaylord off his feet and sent him smashing to the ground, also splitting his lip, and staring at the blood that rushed down his chin, Morgan said evenly, "I believe first blood is mine."
Gaylord's dark eyes flashed and he growled, "You'll still not marry her! I tell you now, I shall do everything and anything within my power to stop you! Anything!"
Morgan smiled at him pityingly, wondering if he had ever been quite so young and impassioned. Then his face hardened. Yes, he had been... until a lying, cheating jade of a wife had shown him the errors of his ways. Shrugging into his jacket held reverently by an admiring Mr. Blanchard, Morgan said cooly, "In that case I presume it behooves me to beware."
Gaylord sat up and wiped his bloody lip. Glaring up at Morgan, he spat fiercely, "You think I jest, but I shall stop you! You'll see. I'll find a way!"
Chapter 10
The day of the betrothal ball dawned bright and clear. Standing at his window at Bonheur, sourly viewing the clear, cloudless blue sky, Morgan decided that the day's warm promise certainly did not reflect his inner feelings. The brief, ridiculous duel with Gaylord Easton had given him much to think about, and he knew now, had known from the moment he had offered for her, that the last thing in the world he wanted to do was marry Melinda Marshall. Even that soft, white body can't tempt me, he thought. There was nothing that Melinda could give him that would compensate for being leg-shackled to a woman whose one aim in life was to dress well and have babies... if, she had confided tranquilly to Morgan just yesterday, they didn't ruin her slim body!
Gaylord, my young, silly friend, if you can come up with a way to gain your heart's desire, you have my blessing! I'd even help you!
Gaylord wasn't going to need anyone's help in stopping his marriage, for Leonie Saint-Andre was about to burst on the scene. But of course neither Morgan, as he gloomily prepared to attend his betrothal ball that night, nor Gaylord as he miserably made his way to King's Tavern to drown his sorrows in whiskey, was aware of that fact.
Leonie and her little group had arrived that day in Natchez just as the sun was fading; having no idea where to locate her erstwhile husband, she had not sought a place to stay for the night. Trying to conserve her slim resources, Leonie had nervously skirted the squalor of Natchez-under-the-Hill, passed by the elegant and expensive inns and taverns on the bluff above, and finally settled her exhausted, travel-stained entourage in the homey, plain comforts of King's Tavern.
The journey from Chateau Saint-Andre to Natchez had been without incident, but it had also been a long, tension-filled trip for them all. Not one of the little group had ever been farther away from home than New Orleans, and as they pressed deeper and deeper into the wilderness the simple act of making one's bed on the hard ground in a strange, unfamiliar territory had been an ordeal.
Relief had almost been palpable when they had reached Natchez. Mammy, her round black face shining with delight at having arrived alive and unscathed at their destination after the long, lonely stretches of green wilderness, had said firmly, "That was the last time I leaves home!"
Leonie had smiled tiredly, unwilling to argue, and at that moment, all she cared for was a bath and a real bed.
But by the time everyone had been settled in and she had bathed and put on a clean gown, her spirits had revived, and she was preparing to find Monsieur Slade. By eight o'clock that night, having seen that everybody was comfortably occupied for the night, Leonie sat planning quietly in the room she shared with Yvette and Justin. She would ask the proprietor if he knew of Monsieur Slade, and depending on what he told her, she would proceed from there. Looking across at Yvette who sat in a small, wooden rocker plying her needle, Leonie asked abruptly, "Will you be all right with Justin, if I leave you for a while?"
Yvette's lovely brown eyes were troubled as she glanced at her half-sister. "You mean to begin immediately searching for him, don't you?"
Leonie nodded her tawny head vigorously. "Oui! We haven't much time. What little money we have will not last very long.... I must see Monsieur Slade as soon as possible."
Justin, who had been sleepily playing with the kittens on the floor near Leonie's feet, looked up, and with a sparkle in the green eyes, so like his mother's, he demanded, "You are going to see my papa? I wish to come too!"
Leonie bit her lip and made some vague reply. Presenting Justin to Monsieur Slade was going to be dangerously difficult. Justin's conception was a secret that Leonie had not shared, and everyone assumed he was her husband's child. For obvious reasons she had not seen fit to explain any differently, and Justin had grown up believing Monsieur Slade to be his father. What she had not counted on was Monsieur Slade seeing Justin, and now that the moment was fast approaching, she was understandably uneasy and terrified that the truth would come out. She could not bear for Justin to be labeled a bastard, and in some way, just precisely how escaped her, she intended to avoid that.
The only glimmer of hope she had was the fact that Morgan Slade
had been very drunk their wedding night and it was possible, if not probable, that if he found out about Justin's existence she could convince him that he had fathered the child. Mori Dieu! but that is unlikely, she thought angrily. It was far too probable that he was going to remember vividly how she had denied him her bed, threatening him with a pistol! I shall just have to take a gamble, she decided. No matter what he says if he learns of Justin, I shall just insist that Justin is his son.
Shaking out the soft folds of her gown, she stood up, and then bent down and kissed Justin's cheek. "Bon nuit, mon fils—you will do as tante Yvette says, and go to bed soon?"
Justin made a face, but as he was an agreeable child, he nodded his dark, curly-haired head. "Oui, maman. You will not be gone long?"
Leonie answered him honestly. "Only as long as it takes, but I shall hurry, mon petit."
Then with a swirl of her skirts, she was gone from the room. Unaware of the enchanting picture she made in the gown of lavender muslin, the long, unruly hair caught in a coil of braids at the back and short ringlets round her face, she hurried down the hall, intent upon finding the tavern's proprietor.
The lavender gown was one of the dresses her grand-pere had bought when she had married Monsieur Slade, and despite being almost six years old, it was still quite fashionable with its high waist and slim, narrow skirt. It was a bit low-cut for Leonie's taste, but she had solved that problem by wearing a square shawl of cream silk across her shoulders and fastening it in the center with a cameo brooch that had belonged to her grand-mere.
A frivolous reticule of white lute string spangled with silver hung from one slim hand; it contained the all-important agreements that Monsieur Slade had signed in the summer of 1799. Agreements he was now going to honor, she thought grimly as she reached the stairway that led to a small garden at the side of the tavern.
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