Kary, Elizabeth (6 page)

Sighing,
Banister sipped from his glass. He had been like that once too, undaunted by
the cards fate dealt him, willing to gamble everything on his own raw courage
and initiative. It was his dawning maturity and pragmatism that made him both
admire and fear for Leigh Pennington's innocence. In retrospect, it was not
difficult to determine when his own brash idealism had been crushed by life's
realities. It had been destroyed swiftly and brutally in the moment when Monica
Morgan Bennett had denied him his son.

Monica.
Even now that name was not without its bittersweet associations. He had seen
her for the first time at the racetrack in Saratoga, where he was spending a
few weeks between graduation from Princeton and the start of his job at the
family shipyards in Cincinnati. The girl beside him at the rail had turned to
him with a question about one of the horses, and he had found himself looking
into heavily fringed eyes that shimmered like molten gold. Dressed in a
flounced, butter-yellow gown and a wide-brimmed hat with violet streamers,
Monica had been exquisite, with her deep sable curls and peachy skin. In that
first moment he was lost, even before he knew her name. He had squired her
around the fashionable resort for the next weeks, much to the chagrin of her
other suitors. He had taken her boating, riding, and dancing, becoming more and
more besotted by her beauty, her soft Georgia drawl, and the few chaste kisses
she allowed him. It was only when he finally bared his feelings for her that he
learned she was betrothed to a merchant in Vicksburg, Mississippi. He had been
nearly distraught with disappointment and jealousy until Monica suggested a
scheme to force her parents to void the marriage contract with the older man
and allow her to marry Hayes. At the time her rather pointed questions about
his family's finances and his personal prospects had not bothered him since
they seemed a factor in determining the validity of his suit. Innocently, he
had outlined the extensive Banister holdings in Ohio and shared his hopes for
the future. Convinced of his worth, Monica had invited him to her rooms. Her
plan was simple and direct: they were to be discovered as lovers and forced to
marry. At first Hayes had resisted the dishonesty of the plan, but when he
asked Monica's father for her hand and was refused as a "money-grubbing
Yankee," he'd had no choice but to fall in with what she'd proposed.

Even
all these years later, he could remember the intoxicating mixture of excitement
and desire he'd felt as he climbed the trellis to the bedroom Monica occupied
in one of Saratoga's plush guesthouses. She had been waiting for him, dressed
in a beribboned nightgown and wrapper with her night-dark hair loose on her
shoulders. Though he'd had no experience at seducing virgins, her initial ardor
startled him, and the tongue that explored his mouth freely was a surprise and
a delight after the few chaste kisses she'd allowed him. The feel of her small,
delicate body in his arms and the rich, musky scent of her perfume had fired
his need and shattered his self-control. He had torn at her bows and buttons,
then at his own clothes until they moved with naked abandon to the tall
four-poster bed. There they had played with wandering mouths and hands until
Hayes was mad with wanting. Finally he had spread her thighs and thrust deep, driven
by the goad of his ravenous desires, and in that moment he had known he was not
the first to take her sensuously straining body for his own. But then
satisfaction had run through their blood like flame, blotting out thought, to
leave them wet and panting in the muffling stillness of the night. They had
come together twice more before dawn, and Hayes had drifted to sleep replete
with equal parts satisfaction and exhaustion.

The
rest of the plan had gone as Monica had proposed. Hayes had awakened to find
Mr. Morgan standing over them, crimson with anger and indignation. Even then
the scene that followed had held an element of comedy, with Monica's father
shouting at the top of his voice, her mother wailing piteously, and Hayes
himself, having abruptly discovered the disadvantage of being naked in such
circumstances, fumbling to dress under the cover of the tumbled bedclothes.
Only Monica had remained calm, her dainty features artfully arranged in an
incongruous expression of violated innocence and smug satisfaction. Finally,
with a vow to return after breakfast to press his suit, Hayes had retreated
down the rose trellis, flushed, half-dressed and humiliated in temporary
defeat. But when he arrived at midmorning to claim Monica's hand, the Morgans
were gone.

He
had taken the first train to Georgia, learning only when he arrived at the
Morgan plantation that the family had traveled directly to Vicksburg. The
wedding between Monica and the elderly merchant was a fact by the time Hayes
reached the city on the bluffs, but he had not given up. He arranged a meeting
with Monica at a dressmaker's shop.

"Oh,
Hayes, how glad I am you've come," she had whispered when they were alone.
"Father forced me to marry Jacob Bennett, but it's you I'll always
love."

"Then
come away with me, Monica," he demanded as he drew her close. "Let me
make a life for us together."

"But
how can I leave my husband?" She dabbed daintily at her eyes as she
watched him. "My reputation would be in ruins, and since I'm not free to
marry you, I could never be more than your mistress. And don't ask me to be
that, Hayes, please. I couldn't bear the shame."

She
had wept, and his inexperienced heart had melted. "Then what's to become
of us? I love you, Monica, and I can't do without you!"

"You
could stay here in Vicksburg," she suggested sweetly, gazing up at him
through her tears. "At least, I could see you once in a while."

"What
kind of a life would that be, having to be satisfied with the few hours we
could steal? And what would I do here? I've wanted to design and build
steamboats for as long as I can remember."

"Do?"
she had inquired in total confusion. "Why, you're rich, aren't you? Why
must you do anything?"

He
should have understood then what kind of woman Monica was, but he had been too
bewitched by her beauty, too consumed by lust, too young and green to
understand her motives.

"Damn
fool!" Hayes whispered in the darkened St. Louis hotel room as he filled
his glass again.

Instead
of returning to Cincinnati and the life he'd planned, he had stayed in
Vicksburg and apprenticed himself to a crusty old river pilot. Within months he
had his master's papers and a position of his own on the
Priscilla Anne
out
of Natchez. He bought a tract of land north of Vicksburg and built a snug,
secluded cabin where he and Monica could meet without fear of discovery. The
life on the river had quickly engulfed him in honest work, rough and ready
companions, and the promise of adventure. And when he made port, there was
Monica, at least as hungry for his body as he was for hers. In the three years
the affair lasted, Hayes had dreamed of a time when Monica would agree to run
away with him. But as often as he tried to convince her, Monica never weakened.
Then came the day he had never been able to accept as inevitable.

Monica
had risen from the bed slowly after a particularly fierce bout of lovemaking
and stood watching him as she put on her riding clothes. He could remember just
how he had felt as she dressed: pleasantly spent, totally sated, and vaguely
resentful of her need to hurry home.

"Hayes,"
she had said softly, adjusting her jabot, "this is the last time I'm
coming here. I don't want to see you anymore."

It
had taken an eternity for the meaning of her words to reach him, and when they
did, the strength had seeped out of his limbs, leaving them cold and shaking.
Then he had forced himself to stand erect beside her; no man could accept this
kind of rejection lying down.

"Why?"
he had asked simply.

She'd
looked away from his nakedness, though she knew his big body well. "I
think my husband suspects I've been meeting someone, and..."

His
hands had moved gently along her delicate jaw, turning her face to his.
"And?"

"And
I'm pregnant."

Hayes
had been even less prepared for that revelation than he had been for the one that
preceded it. He had stood without moving, looking down into her eyes, trying to
understand her reasons for destroying all they had shared, especially now.

"You're
a superb lover, Hayes," Monica went on, "and I hate to give up our
afternoons together, but there must be no doubt in Jacob's mind about the
paternity of our son. He must accept him as his heir. My husband is a very rich
man, and one day all his possessions will come to this child and to me. If
Jacob found proof of my association with you, all that could be in
jeopardy."

Only
a fraction of what she said had penetrated Hayes's chaotic thoughts, and he
knew only that he must have the answer to one question before she went away.

"Is
the child mine?" he whispered.

Monica
had paused almost imperceptibly, but that moment had seemed infinite to the man
awaiting her answer. Slowly she shook her head. "No, the baby is
Jacob's."

Hayes
had not been sure if her words were false or if he simply did not want to
believe them.

"Your
husband is an old man—" he began in a rush, full of explanations.

"He
may be an old man, gray-haired and infirm, but he is far from incapable of
fathering a child."

His
hands slid to her shoulders, and he shook her fiercely. "Is the child
mine?" he had demanded again, not knowing what answer he sought.

Monica
wrenched away. "No!" she had cried. "You are not the baby's
father."

Hayes
sagged to the edge of the bed, his mind in turmoil. She was lying; he was
certain of it. The child must be his. With sick certainty knotting his insides
he had watched Monica complete her toilette. Even in his confusion he could
understand why she had chosen an empty role of respectable wife and mother
rather than the shame of bearing his bastard child. Monica was afraid to give
up a secure life with her elderly husband for an uncertain future by his side.

"Monica,
please, leave your husband and come away with me," he offered, voicing the
words for what might have been the hundredth time. "I'll make a life for
us together; I swear I will. In time we can arrange for a divorce, and I'll
marry you gladly. Please, Monica, don't deprive me of the chance to know my own
child!"

She
had turned on him with teeth bared and eyes narrowed. "The baby is not
yours, Hayes!" she spat. "And even if it were, I wouldn't run away
with you. Jacob is far richer than you'll ever be; I'm sure of that now. Once I
thought I could marry you and have not only a rich husband but a handsome one
as well, but I'd never be satisfied with a man who works as a common river
pilot to earn his keep. No, the baby I'm carrying is Jacob's heir and the key
to my plans for the future."

Suddenly
Hayes had towered over her, naked and elemental in his righteous anger. He was
painfully torn between the words of entreaty that bubbled unbidden to his lips
and the churning disgust he felt for the lying jade the woman he loved had
proved herself to be. For the first time he understood the motives in a crime
of passion—the hurt and betrayal that could drive a man to murder—and he fought
his own violent emotions. Abruptly he turned away, hating himself for the trust
he'd given so indiscriminately and her for her self-serving deceit.

"May
you rot in hell, Monica, if you bargain my child for that old man's
riches!" he said with suppressed fury.

She
had stood watching him for a long moment before she dared voice a warning of
her own. "And if you ever approach me, Hayes, ever cast a pall of doubt on
this child's paternity, I will see that you precede me there." Her threat
had echoed in the silent cabin long after she was gone, leaving Hayes in the
gathering dusk with his doubts and disillusionment.

Banister
fumbled for the half-empty bottle of bourbon beside his chair and drank a
silent toast to Monica's son. The boy must be nearly six now, no, almost seven.
How quickly the years passed! Hayes had never returned to the cabin north of
Vicksburg after that day or approached Monica directly, but he made discreet
inquiries whenever his boat made port. He knew when his son was born and that
he was christened with another man's name. Though he had never seen the child,
when he left the river to take his rightful place at the shipyards in
Cincinnati, he felt he had left a vital part of himself in the river city on
the bluffs.

Setting
the empty glass beside the bottle on the floor, Hayes came unsteadily to his
feet. He knew from experience that liquor only served to blunt the senses but
did little to dull the pain, fresh and sharp even after eight years. Still, he
was irritated by his own self-indulgence. From the street below his windows the
clamor of voices continued, but Hayes was no longer sure where their noise left
off and the roaring in his head began.

With
frowning deliberation he made his way to the bedroom and prepared for sleep,
determined not to waste more time with useless regrets. Yet even after he was
settled comfortably between the cool sheets, thoughts of Monica and Leigh
Pennington buzzed in his head. Of course, it was not fair to compare the two of
them; they were as different as midnight and noon. There was not even a
superficial similarity between them. One was deceitful adventuress, the other a
naive innocent. Yet his reaction had been the same when he looked at Leigh
today as it had been all those years ago when he had fallen under Monica's
spell. He had been aware of those same old feelings surfacing: tenderness,
warmth, desire. In a slurred voice he cursed his own vulnerability, just as he
had cursed it this afternoon as he held Leigh Pennington beneath the spreading
branches of an oak. Somehow Hayes had thought himself immune to women, as if
having survived one disastrous love affair left him invulnerable, but today he
had been struck down again. He was totally captivated by Leigh Pennington, and
it scared him to death.