A Heart for the Taking (7 page)

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 into 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 slightly, 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.”

Morely looked alarmed. “Now, Chance, you would not be thinking of . . .”

A lethal gleam in his cobalt blue eyes, Chance glanced at the older man. “Of what? Of giving Jonathan a taste of his own medicine? You cannot deny that it would be fitting.”

Morely blanched. “Chance, you cannot. I know what happened with Jenny was tragic, and God knows that I do not condone Jonathan’s part in it, but you must put these thoughts of vengeance from your mind.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “You cannot continue to torture yourself over what you cannot change or punish yourself for decisions that were made long ago. Let the past go—if you do not, it will destroy you, my boy.”

As it nearly did me, Morely thought heavily. It cut through him painfully, the bitter knowledge that through cowardice and vacillation he had never told anyone how he had come to arrive at Andrew’s home with a baby in his arms. The knowledge, too, that Sam and Letty were growing older, and that he himself was no longer a young man, filled him with a gnawing urgency. That and the fact that last winter he had suffered a debilitating inflammation of the lung that had left him weak and bedridden for several long, terrifying weeks and had brought home the fact of his own mortality. If he did not speak, and soon, Chance’s history might die with him.

Ignoring Morely’s heartfelt advice, Chance said flatly, “If I can destroy Jonathan Walker in the process, my own damnation will be worth it.”

“Father is right,” Hugh murmured. “I know you still mourn her, but Jenny has been dead seven years now. And while it would give me great pleasure to see Jonathan Walker get his comeuppance, I would not want to see it at cost to yourself.”

Chance snorted. “So we are all to just pretend that he didn’t
seduce my wife, my bride of not even two years? Or get her with child and then coldly abandon her to face me alone upon my return from England? We are to forget that sweet, terrified Jenny didn’t hang herself just hours before I arrived home? We are to forget that after being away for nearly eight months, eight very
long
months, I might add, I came home to find my beloved wife dishonored and dead?” Chance’s eyes went almost black with suppressed rage. “Jonathan Walker killed her as surely as if he had hanged her himself.”

“There was never any proof,” Morely muttered. “Just because he called frequently at your home while you were gone—several neighbors and friends did the same, you must remember—or because a few gossipy old cats claimed to have seen them riding together about the countryside does not mean that he was her lover.”

Chance flashed him a look. “Do you doubt the identity of her seducer? Do you think even for one moment that it was anyone else?” Staring blindly at his tankard, he said heavily, “Everyone knows that before Jenny fell in love with me, her father and Sam were considering a match between her and Jonathan. Just as everyone knows that Jonathan was furious when Jenny and I married and that he has always hated me.”