Turning back towards the inside of the office, he noted the fireplace near the sofa and the two tall-backed chairs, covered in a pleasing shade of gold, that sat nearby. A pair of mahogany bookcases were behind the desk, and a writing table and a chair of oak rested under one of the sets of windows. The floor was covered with a carpet in a soft russet as were the curtains that lined the windows, and taking another long glance around the room, Morgan decided that under other circumstances he would have found the room more than adequate for his needs.
Seating himself behind the desk, idly his fingers played with the quill and inkwell that rested on its polished surface as he mulled over all that he had learned this morning—which was damned little, he decided with frustrated anger. Everyone backed up Leonie's story. By God, but she had planned this cleverly and primed them all well in their parts, he conceded with reluctant admiration.
But more than that, all of them looked the part, right down to their clothes and possessions. As he had talked with the various blacks, he had made a mental note of the bedraggled mules and the condition of the two wagons, as well the cherished, well-worn copper pots that Mammy had insisted upon using in the new kitchen. Their clothes were clean and presentable, but it was obvious that they were old and threadbare. Even during the brief time he had spent in Leonie's room, he had unconsciously gathered certain impressions—Leonie's night shift, for one thing, was certainly not what one would expect a conniving adventuress to wear. Nor were Justin's clothes much better than those of the blacks, as they too had show signs of being well-worn and, even more tellingly, of not having been of the first quality when they had been new. Even Yvette's gown, while charming, showed that it had never been expensive or particularly stylish, and Morgan was well versed in the cut and cost of women's wearing apparel; he had paid the dressmaker's bill for too many gowns for the various women in his life not to be.
So, what did that tell him? he wondered sardonically. That his little wife had planned well? That she had left nothing to chance? That every word that came out of that sweet mouth could be reinforced by her cohorts? Morgan snorted. It did rather look that way.
Which left him where? With a lying, conniving wife I don't want! he thought explosively. And a son, too, he reminded himself. A son he knew was not his!
Oh, he could see where his parents might think that Justin resembled him, but then, that black hair and decided chin could have come from any number of other men—an aggressive jawline and a jutting, masculine chin were not the sole property of the Slade family!
For the moment, he would have to play the game as the cards were dealt to him. He would let Madame Leonie run her length, and when the noose tightened, he'd be there to see her brought down.
In the meantime, it would behoove him, he decided, to send someone to New Orleans to double-check her background and the story she told. Maybe he would get lucky and there would be some tiny mistake that she had made, thereby giving him the leverage to explode her clever little tale for the pack of lies it was. And for the present—Morgan smiled—for the present, I shall enjoy all the rights and pleasures to which a husband is entitled!
Chapter 15
Five days passed. Five days of tranquility and peacefulness on the surface, but underneath a seething cauldron of suspicion, and wariness. Fortunately, only Leonie and Morgan were the guardians of those emotions; everyone else, from Morgan's parents on down to Justin, were aware only of the pleasant veneer that the other two showed the world.
Justin was most ecstatic. Within two days of their moving into Le Petit, a pony, "black as thunder," arrived, and from that moment on Justin was Morgan's adoring slave. Everything that papa did met with his full approval, and Morgan could hardly take a step without finding Justin tagging along behind him.
For Leonie, the sight of Justin happily scampering behind Morgan's tall form as he went about his not-very-arduous duties was a knife thrust in her heart, and her mistrust and suspicion of Morgan Slade grew. Only he and she knew the truth of their abortive wedding night, and Leonie wondered uneasily more than once why he had so casually and effortlessly acknowledged the child. He had to know that Justin was not his, and yet he actually appeared to like the child. Certainly he did not discourage Justin's blatant desire for his company; of late, too often had Leonie seen Justin dart after Morgan crying, "Papa! Papa! Wait for me!" Morgan, his lean features lightened with a warm smile, would stop and catch Justin up in his arms, and with Justin happily perched upon his shoulders the two of them would wander off to the stables, or to the office or on secret little rides of their own, Morgan atop the snorting, cavorting Tempete, and Justin merrily astride the newly named Thunder.
The others, Yvette and the blacks from Saint-Andre, were all happily settling in at Le Petit as if they planned to live there forever. With every passing day, Leonie felt they were slipping away from her, as if they had somehow mysteriously become aligned with the despicable Morgan Slade. No one, it seemed, gave a thought anymore to the possibility of their returning to Chateau Saint-Andre, and as time passed and she was still no nearer to reclaiming her dowry, Leonie had to admit that it seemed the Chateau was to be lost to her forever.
Thus far, Leonie herself could not say that she was unhappy. It would be hard for anyone to remain in misery in such charming surroundings, and as Morgan had not as yet made any overt move toward her, she was almost able to relax and enjoy herself.... Almost.
The house itself was lovely; the spacious rooms with their elegant furnishings would have delighted any bride, and to someone like Leonie, who had grown up and lived in the faded splendor of Chateau Saint-Andre, it was particularly enjoyable to wake up in the large, handsome set of rooms that she had been shown the afternoon she first arrived at Le Petit. She had her own sitting room, dressing room, and bedroom; each was large and airy, and full of light from the wide, tall windows that overlooked the latticed summerhouse and the pair of French doors that led onto the upper veranda. The decor for the most part was a charming mixture of cream and rose, the walls were hung with a delicate shade of rose silk, the carpet was a gorgeous blending of cream rose and green, and soft drapes of cream velvet lined the many windows.
In the sitting room, the sofa and chairs were upholstered in a beautiful tapestry print that combined the cream and rose colors, and the small tables were of satinwood; in her dressing room and bedroom, the wardrobes and other pieces of furniture were of the same gleaming light wood. Her bed with its high, delicately carved headboard was draped in yards and yards of rich ruby satin which formed a swirling canopy overhead before drifting in billowing curtains down the sides.
But while Leonie took a certain amount of pleasure in these elegant surroundings, she was always conscious that this was Morgan Slade's home. It was his food that she ate; his money that paid her servants; his stables that housed her mules. She also knew that eventually, whether or not the others followed, she and Justin must leave Le Petit.
Of Morgan Slade and his effect upon her emotions, she dared not think. He was too overpowering, too male, too virile, and too attractive for someone like Leonie, who had lived most of her life away from men. Time and time again she tried to recall the dislike and disgust she had felt for him in New Orleans, but instead she would find herself staring out the window, remembering how he had smiled at her at breakfast, or the flicker of something exciting in the depths of those dark blue eyes when he looked at her. He is being too nice, she decided at last. Much too nice. He is up to something, of this I am positive.
Morgan was up to something. He was cooly stalking Leonie, but she was too innocent to realize it. He had held off forcing his way into her bedroom, enjoying instead the pleasure of the chase. It was a lazy game to Morgan; he advanced and she retreated, and just when it ceased to be a game, even he wasn't sure. It could have been the morning that he looked across the breakfast table and noticed the almost childish delight she took in the flaky croissant Mammy had served; then again, it could have been the evening that Dominic a
nd Robert had come to call, and while they all, including Yvette, were sitting outside in the summerhouse, Leonie had given her charming gurgle of laughter at something Dominic had said, the sea-green eyes slanting bewitchingly with amusement. Morgan was never sure precisely when it happened, but sometime in those five days, despite the suspicion and distrust which existed between them, the fierce emotion he had experienced that night when he had first looked up and had seen her standing in the archway... that emotion took root and began to grow. He was unaware of it and would have furiously scoffed at the ridiculous idea that he could be falling madly in love with a lying little jade like Leonie. He told himself that it was simply proximity—seeing Leonie every day, it was only natural that he would often find her in his thoughts. Perfectly natural, he reassured himself time and time again.
But if that were true, why did he take such delight in simply watching her? The play of emotions across that expressive little face? The grace of that slender body as she ran across the expanse of lawn with Justin? Or, for that matter, why did that enchanting ripple of laughter that was so particularly hers fill him with such pleasure?
Despite the spell Leonie was unconsciously weaving about him, Morgan retained enough hardheaded common sense to finally sit down and write the letter that he had been putting off for too many days. Further thought on the subject of finding out the truth about Leonie Saint-Andre had made him decide that rather than send someone to New Orleans to investigate, he would write to his friend Jason Savage and have Jason discover what he could. And thinking of Jason, Morgan smiled to himself, for the first time seeing a glimmer of sanity in this entire insane situation. Jason could verify that Morgan had been with him at the time he supposedly married Leonie Saint-Andre. But Jason's word wouldn't be enough, Morgan conceded ruefully—their friendship was well-known and it was only logical that Jason would substantiate his story whether it was true or not.
Oddly enough, he had deliberately avoided writing the letter, but when it was sealed and had been sent on its way, he felt at once positive and yet queerly depressed. Perhaps he didn't want to know the truth about Leonie Saint-Andre. And yet the simple act of writing that letter stirred something deep in his mind. Something about that trip to New Orleans that he should remember... something that might provide the clue which would explain everything.
The sending of the letter reminded him forcibly of the fact that no matter how attractive or bewitching Leonie was, she was a liar who had embarked upon a dangerous masquerade. It was time, he thought with a grim sort of anticipation, to show her that there was more to their supposed marriage than just sharing a house.
Leonie sensed the difference in him almost immediately. During the time that had passed, and her mocking, deceitful husband had made no attempt to force his attentions on her, Leonie had been lulled into a false security. She told herself optimistically that he must mean to abide by the agreement he'd signed—the one agreement that had not yet been mentioned. She assumed that his own masculine vanity kept him from bringing it up, and while she was suspicious of his motives, she couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief that he appeared willing to honor at least one of their two agreements. And perhaps this was an indication that he would repay the dowry. Leonie sincerely prayed so! For as soon as she had received her dowry, she and Justin and the others would be off to try to regain their home. And that, Leonie vowed fiercely, would remove them from Morgan Slade's influence!
But apparently not soon enough, she thought uneasily, when she happened to look up and see him astride Tempete and watching her and Justin as they walked barefoot in the creek. She told herself it was the surprise of seeing him so unexpectedly, surprise and not the look in those brilliant blue eyes that sent a shudder of apprehension down her spine.
Leonie and Justin had been alone at the edge of the creek, and Yvette, finding the increasingly warm afternoons too debilitating, had retired to her rooms to rest. As Leonie and Justin were perfectly happy to be alone, they had forgotten everything except the sheer pleasure of exploring the rippling cool creek. They were out of sight of the house, just inside the green, shadowy forest when Morgan came across them. And as had happened the first morning he had found them playing on the bed at Bonheur, they were completely absorbed in their own activities and were unaware of him.
Leonie's skirts were rucked up about her waist, and small droplets of water sparkled on her golden legs and thighs as she and Justin splashed in the creek, attempting to catch a little green frog. Her hair had come loose from its haphazard chignon and cascaded in a curling mane about her slender shoulders. The gown was an old one of a soft shade of green, and staring at her, at the slim golden arms and the laughing, bewitching face as she turned to Justin when she caught the frog, Morgan felt as if he had never seen anything quite so temptingly lovely in all his life. She was a wild, fey thing... a forest nymph that he had caught by surprise. Unconsciously he held his breath, his hands tightening on the reins that controlled Tempete so effortlessly, afraid that the slightest movement would make her vanish in the green, sun-dappled forest like a mirage.
It was a secluded place where they were, the trees and vines hiding them from the house, the little creek edged here and there with wildflowers—wild hyacinth and sweet-scented violets. And as she stood there, the lovely shape of her legs clearly revealed, a shaft of sunlight turning the tawny curls to molten gold, Leonie exuded an irresistible, earthy sensuality that Morgan found difficult to ignore.
He was instantly conscious of the blood flowing hot and thick in his veins and of the heavy, sweet ache that suddenly flooded his loins. Only Justin's presence stopped him from urging Tempete into the stream and reaching down to swing her up into his arms. The fierce, hungry desire he felt was obvious in the blue eyes, and he made no attempt to conceal it when Leonie happened to glance up and saw him and the big, blood-bay stallion.
He was very handsome as he sat with insolent grace on Tempete, his white shirt carelessly opened to his waist, the buff breeches fitting snugly along his powerful thighs. The thick black hair brushed the collar of his shirt and one willful lock displayed a tendency to dip across his broad forehead, giving him a rakish air. His feet were bare, an oddity, but then he had been on his way for a private swim when he had come across Leonie and Justin. There was an unconscious arrogance about him, and the blatant expression of sexual desire which blazed in those dark blue eyes forced Leonie backwards, a half-frightened, half-defiant look on her face. Suddenly aware of the naked length of leg exposed to his gaze, an angry blush staining her cheeks, she hastily pulled her gown down and asked breathlessly, "Did you want us, monsieur?"
The "monsieur" made Morgan smile. Even pretending to be his wife, even living in his home, she refused to call him anything but "monsieur," and he was conscious it was her way of keeping a barrier between them. A barrier, he decided in that instant, he was going to enjoy smashing.
"Not exactly," he said slowly as he urged Tempete to the edge of the creek. Glancing briefly at Justin, he commanded easily, "Run along, will you, Justin? I want to talk to your maman... alone." Before Leonie could countermand the order, Justin had already begun to run towards the house, the little frog clutched triumphantly in his hand.
Alone, the two adults faced each other. The hard sheen of desire still glittering in his eyes, Morgan murmured softly, "You, not us, I want."
"Non!" Leonie spat, her small body rigid with rejection. "You will not touch me, monsieur! I have a paper that says you will not!"
Morgan grinned at that, for a moment real amusement dancing in the vivid blue eyes. "Have you really, sweetheart? You must show it to me sometime. But not," he said thickly, "not now."
Leonie made a valiant effort to escape, picking up her skirts and spinning on her heels with the fleetness of a doe, she raced down the creek and deeper into the woods. And it was only as she plunged into the concealing green of the forest that she realized she should have run toward the house, not away from it. Dodging and darting, running as f
ast as she dared through the trunks of the trees, skirting the smaller clumps of brush, desperately she tried to work her way back towards the house.
Behind her she could hear Morgan's smothered laughter and the thud of Tempete's hooves as the stallion easily followed her. Her breath coming in gasps and her heart beating as if it would burst from her breast, she ran on, the long golden legs flashing in the occasional rays of sunlight that permeated the thickness of the forest. She ran with grace, and though she tried trick after trick to lose her pursuers, she was no match for Morgan's determined chase or Tempete's speed.
The uneven chase had only one end, and Morgan having let her run as far as he wanted, kicked Tempete into a gallop and bore down on the slim figure. Coming alongside her, he captured her in his arm and swung her up in front of him. Leonie still fought, twisting in his hold, her soft body like a sweet intoxicating flame wherever it touched. Angrily she panted, "Non! Monsieur, I tell you, non!"
"And I tell you, yes!" Morgan breathed against her soft mouth before his lips stopped hers.
Leonie strained desperately away from him, but it did no good as his hold on her tightened and his mouth took liberties that reminded her vividly of the night she had lost her virginity to a stranger.
Bur Morgan was no stranger, and his probing tongue filled her mouth, his lips hard against hers as he deepened the embrace, his arms forcing her slender, resisting body up next to his until her breasts were crushed against his chest and she could feel the desire that drove him.
Whatever control Morgan may have had over his emotions, whatever good intentions he may have had, vanished the instant his mouth touched hers, and with a groan of sheer sensual pleasure, his lips and tongue slowly, caressingly explored the warm honey of her mouth. He held her firmly against him, reveling in the exciting twistings of her soft body as she fought to escape, and half-blindly, half-knowingly he guided Tempete farther away from the house and deeper into the forest.
Deceive Not My Heart Page 22