A Heart for the Taking (44 page)

Her face suddenly alight with an incandescent joy, Letty bounded to her feet with the lithe movement of a young girl.
Tugging excitedly at his hands, she cried, “Oh, Sam. We must go to him. I cannot wait to look into his dear face and know that he is ours. Oh, do come! ’Tis too late to leave this afternoon, but by dawn we could be on our to way to see our son.”

“That is precisely what we cannot do,” Sam said heavily. “Have you forgotten that it is only by the merest chance that he still lives, that someone wanted him to die badly enough to abandon him to the elements when he was only minutes old?”

A fierce glitter in her gray-blue eyes, Letty said, “No, I have not forgotten. We will deal with Constance and her perfidious actions later. Right now, I want to see my son! Because Morely was such a dithering, cretinous fool, I have waited thirty-four years to do so, and I do not intend to be deterred.”

“Not even if your actions put Chance in danger?” Sam asked quietly.

The fierceness faded from her eyes, and she made a face. “You know that I would never do anything to harm him,” she said softly.

Sam rose to his feet and pulled her against him. “I know, sweetheart, I know. But we must use our heads, not our hearts. We must not reveal to anyone even a hint of what we believe.” He glanced down at her. “You have no doubts that Chance is our son? That you did give birth to twins that night?”

Letty nodded slowly. “It is such an obvious explanation for so many things—not only Chance’s likeness to you, but the pain I experienced before the laudanum took over. Knowing, as we do now, Morely’s part in it all, I do not see what other conclusion we can make. You have not been able to find any proof to the contrary. In fact, what you have found only bolsters the premise that Chance is our son. I believe that old fool Morely when he says that he found Chance on the bluff. And that belief coupled with everything else we know makes our conclusions inescapable. I
did
give birth to twins, one dead and one alive, and Constance . . .”
Her gentle eyes grew fierce again. “Well, Constance saw an opportunity to advance Jonathan and she took it.”

“We are going to have to be very careful in the coming days,” Sam said. “You must not act any differently around her. Remember, she tried to get rid of him once, she very likely would try again. And you must not act differently around Chance, either. Remember, too,” he added gravely, “that I have no solid proof, nothing that would stand before the law.
We
know that Chance is our son. But if we want him to take his rightful place, as our son and heir, we must try to find something more compelling than Morely’s tale and the fact that I cannot find any notation in my records to disprove Chance’s parentage. Jonathan would fight us every step of the way. He stands to lose a great deal—my personal fortune, which is the largest portion of the Walker wealth. Certainly he would contest, and he would stand a good likelihood of overturning any will of mine that left Chance my fortune.” Sam sighed heavily. “I do not want my son to spend the rest of his life trying to prove his legitimacy and his right to my fortune. There is going to be scandal and gossip aplenty as it is. Without proof, overwhelming proof, we would be doing him an injustice, and we would be leaving him open to malicious speculation and scorn by many if, based on what we have now, we were to declare him our son.”

As Letty nodded in agreement, he sent her a speaking glance. “Above all else, remember that we cannot,
dare
not, alert Constance to what we believe. She is a dangerous woman. I know that it is going to be difficult for you, but we cannot let anyone know what we have learned. Especially not Constance . . . or Jonathan.”

“You do not think . . .?” Letty began fearfully.

“Jonathan and Chance have always been at daggers’ drawing. You know that Jonathan has always displayed an unwarranted dislike of Chance, and if he were to learn that Chance is our son . . .” Sam sighed deeply. “Jonathan is, after all, his mother’s son.”

Jonathan was definitely his mother’s son. Even as Letty
and Sam were discussing the situation and coming to grips with the enormity of the problem that lay before them, Jonathan was very busy, happily plotting Chance’s demise.

Only two days previously Simmons had reported to him the pleasing information that the Thackers had received his message and were awaiting further word. Gratified that the two ruffians had not yet departed for a winter of trading with the Indians and had been found so swiftly, Jonathan had waved Simmons aside and spent the intervening time considering how best to bring about Chance’s death—with no suspicion falling upon himself. Naturally.

Having had time to consider it, Jonathan had completely given up any idea of pursuing Chance’s soon-to-be widow, but he hadn’t quite made up his mind whether or not he wanted Fancy dead. She was, after all, a delightful piece of baggage, and while he might not be interested in marriage any longer, he wouldn’t, he conceded slowly, be at all averse to making her his mistress. He smiled. In fact, he rather liked that notion.

He rubbed his hands together gleefully. Events were moving just as they ought, and as soon as he decided upon the best method of ridding himself of the problem Chance represented, he would meet with the Thackers. He smiled. And that, he thought with satisfaction, would be that.

Jonathan hadn’t been, at first, quite as pleased about Annie’s presence at Devil’s Own. He had been furious with his mother when he learned, too late to prevent it, of Annie’s departure along with the others. He knew very well what Constance had been up to, and it worried him almost as much as it enraged him. He trusted his mother implicitly, but he was rather shaken that with so much at stake, she had boldly defied him and managed to put Annie out of his immediate grasp. They had had a terrible argument about Constance’s actions and her obstinate refusal to agree to Annie’s murder. Her lack of consent to Annie’s demise didn’t deter him from plotting, but it did irritate him. Imagine! Going against his express wishes in order to save the life of a ser
vant who had outlived her usefulness. Bah! His mother was a fool.

His Walker blue eyes cold and hard, Jonathan glared out the window of his study at Foxfield, his mood decidedly sour. While Constance had returned to Walker Ridge, he had elected to continue to reside at the smaller plantation house, discovering that he liked having his own establishment. Constance had been clearly uneasy about his decision, but as had been the case for most of his life, he had simply pleased himself. Aside from everything else, there was another, more pressing reason for him to be living alone at Foxfield. It made it so much easier to come and go without notice or comment from any of his relatives.

Broodingly he stared at the wide expanse of river in the distance; nearly all plantation houses were built with a river view, and Foxfield was no exception. His fists clenched at his sides, he mentally turned over various means of killing Annie and Chance. A faint smile suddenly curved his mouth when a method occurred to him: an Indian attack. If white men could disguise themselves to steal aboard ships in Boston Harbor to toss over tea, why couldn’t the Thackers and some of their wretched cronies disguise themselves as Indians and launch a swift attack against Devil’s Own?

His smile grew. Chance and Annie would be the specific targets, but of course, if anyone else got in the way, that would just be . . .
un
fortunate
.
Only the Thackers would be aware of the purpose behind the raid: the cold-blooded murder of Chance Walker and Annie Clemmons.

Jonathan’s sour mood had vanished entirely, and he felt
very
pleased with himself. It would be so tidy. Two of his problems would be eliminated in one fell swoop. And those stupid Thackers would be none the wiser for the reasons behind it. Besides, they would be so happy to lay their hands on Chance that killing one old woman would almost be a pleasure for them. His smile deepened. They would almost be willing, he suspected, to pay
him
for arranging everything so neatly for them. Best of all, no one would ever con
nect
him
to the tragedy. It would all be blamed on those heartless, murdering savages. Perfect.

He crossed to the bell rope and gave two sharp yanks—the summons for Simmons. Waiting impatiently for his valet, he continued to think about the situation. Killing Chance and Annie was the simplest solution. With those two safely dead, there wasn’t even an urgent need to kill Morely. And the fewer deaths, the better. He wanted no suspicions to suddenly arise, about why so many people connected to the Walker family had met a tragic end in a short period of time. And if Morely had kept his suspicions to himself all these years—and surely the dolt must suspect what had happened—after Chance was dead, there was no reason for Morely to speak. Jonathan smiled wolfishly. No reason at all.

Simmons’s knock upon the door jerked Jonathan from the delightful contemplation of his cleverness. Looking across at his valet, he said briskly, “Make arrangements for the Thackers to be at that old hunting cabin near the south boundary one evening before the end of the month. Once a date has been agreed upon, let me know it.” He looked thoughtful. “I shall give them their orders myself. Your presence will not be necessary. I want them to arrive just at dusk. My horse will be well hidden and I will await them inside the cabin.” He frowned at Simmons. “My identity is to be kept totally secret. You can warn them that they are not to be anywhere near the cabin until it is time for me to meet with them. The cabin will be in darkness, and they are
not
to attempt to light a candle or lantern. They are to enter the cabin, hear my proposition, and leave. They are not to linger. I am depending upon you to make certain those cretins understand the instructions.” Jonathan’s voice hardened. “If they deviate in any manner, the entire project will be abandoned—and they will be out a sizable reward of gold. As for you, be successful in this endeavor and I shall see that you are handsomely served. Fail me . . .”

Simmons bowed low, his face impassive at the implied threat. Inwardly he was burning with rampant curiosity, but
there was no sign of it in his voice as he murmured, “As you wish, sir. I shall see to it immediately.”

*     *     *

Unaware of the momentous, and equally menacing, events that were swirling on the horizon, Chance was, like many planters in Virginia at this time of year, preoccupied with the harvesting of the tobacco crop—and the ever-widening chasm that existed between him and his wife. The month that he had agreed to give her before demanding his conjugal rights had come and gone, and he was conscious that his patience and temper were beginning to fray rather badly.

He had thought that the month-long abstinence from following the dictates of his eager body and taking his fill of Fancy’s many charms would be agony, and he had not been wrong. But that time, torture though it had been, was nothing to what he was experiencing now. The month was over. The truce, or whatever one wanted to call the silly situation—and Chance could think of several decidedly nasty names—had ended and there was, ostensibly, nothing to prevent him from finally claiming his wife in every possible way. Except . . .

On this particular afternoon in the last week of September, Chance was seated astride a restive chestnut gelding, overseeing the gathering of the tobacco crop. He was only half paying attention as the highly valued tobacco plants were cut down and loaded into carts for transportation to the drying sheds behind the stable area; his thoughts centered mainly on his confoundedly aloof and elusive wife. While she still kept stonily to her part of the original bargain, even though it was technically no longer necessary, and slept in his bed each night, that was the only time he was alone with her.

Granted this was a busy time of year, and he was aware that her days were as full as his, but his wife seemed to disappear into thin air at first light. She was no longer even present at meals, and while no one seemed to find it strange, Chance was certain that she was avoiding him. And he didn’t like it one damn bit, he thought sourly.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t even like it that she was still sleeping in his bed. Not that he wanted her to sleep somewhere else, but he was growing damned tired of her chilly manner toward him. When she climbed warily into his bed at night, she neither greeted nor acknowledged him. She simply blew out her candle, turned her back to him, and pulled the covers over her shoulders. And he’d had about all of
that
treatment that he was going to take. She was his wife, dammit. He had given her long enough, far longer than most men in his position would have, he reminded himself virtuously, to get over her displeasure with the way he had brought about their marriage. She was just going to have to accept the fact that they were married and that he didn’t intend to spend the rest of his life living in this increasingly difficult chaste state. He wanted her—desperately. He wanted to taste that soft mouth again and feel her sweet body clench around his.

Yet, for all his growing impatience and frustration, and the belief that he had right on his side, Chance also had the distinctly uneasy feeling that if he attempted anything so ridiculous as to make love with Fancy, it would prove exceedingly disastrous. He cursed himself a dozen times a day for agreeing to her damned, silly bargain in the first place.

His face set in grim, forbidding lines, he turned his horse away from the busy scene in front of him and began to ride toward the house. It was time he settled this situation with her. It could not and would not go on any longer. He was going to find his cat-eyed little witch, wherever she was hiding today, and tell her precisely how things were going to be from this moment on. She might be in his bed tonight, but she had better be prepared for scant sleep.

It took him a while, and several increasingly sharp inquiries, before he finally found her wandering through the fruit orchard with Ellen, Annie, and Martha. The four women were inspecting the apple and quince trees, assessing the ripeness of the red and yellow globes that hung from the trees, some already having fallen on the ground.