A Heart for the Taking (14 page)

“He killed a fellow man in cold blood?” Fancy asked, revulsion clear on her face.

Hugh’s eyes met hers. “You do not understand. After
Martha died, Andrew became both father and mother to him. Andrew became
everything
to him. My cousin Andrew was a gentle man. A scholar, a lover of books, a schoolmaster whose passion was imparting knowledge and shaping young minds—Chance’s included. He was a compassionate man, a man who never denied food or shelter to anyone, not even an Indian.” Hugh’s voice hardened. “And they repaid his kindness by killing him one afternoon in his schoolhouse and setting it on fire. This savage you apparently feel so sorry for murdered and mutilated the man Chance called ‘Father.’ What did you expect him to do
but
kill him?”

Fancy looked away. No, she realized, Chance Walker could not have been expected to do anything other than what he had done. No one would ever strike at anything of his and not pay the penalty.

Her blue eyes full of wonder, Ellen stared at Hugh. “He was but sixteen years?”

Hugh nodded.

A little silence fell. Just at the point it was becoming uncomfortable, Fancy mused aloud, “I wonder why your father still refuses to disclose Chance’s ancestry. After all these years I would not think that it would arouse much scandal—especially if your father
is
his father, since everyone already believes that to be true.”

“And what about his mother? Is there no hint of who she might be?” Ellen asked softly.

Hugh shook his dark head. “Nothing. Not one word—in fact, for years now, whenever anyone has been so foolish as to bring up the subject, Morely simply leaves the room. He will
not
talk of it.”

“And I could wish,” Chance said dryly as he stepped from the shadows of the forest, “that you would do the same.”

Fancy felt her cheeks redden, but it was Ellen who said guiltily, “Oh, do not be angry with Hugh. ’Tis our fault, but we did not mean to pry.”

Chance muttered something, and the subject was once more dropped. But it wouldn’t go away. Both Fancy and Ellen were utterly fascinated by the mystery of Chance’s
parentage. That night as the four of them sat around the fire, Ellen said shyly, “We are very sorry that we badgered poor Hugh this afternoon into telling us about your background—especially if it is painful for you.”

Charmed as usual by Ellen, Chance said lightly, “It is not painful for me. I just consider the subject of little interest.”

“But it is so very curious,” Fancy said, her eyes full of speculation. “From what Hugh has told us, ’tis as if you had no beginning until his father placed you in Andrew’s arms.”

Chance shrugged. “That may be, but it all happened a long time ago and I do not dwell on it anymore—and most of the family does not, either. A man must make his own way.” He sent Fancy a lopsided grin that did strange things to her heart. “It is many years since I have needed either a mother or a father to worry over me.”

“And do not forget,” Hugh said heartily, “had it not been for your arrival—whoever sired you—my father might still be the disgrace of the family. I—might not even be here had it not been for you.”

Her eyes very round, Ellen looked from one man to the other. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Only that until Chance made his appearance, my father was well on his way to drinking and wenching himself to death—and losing everything he owned.”

“I do not believe that Morely was ever quite as bad as some of the Walkers claim,” Chance said bluntly.

“But he changed after you were born?” Fancy inquired, one slim brow raised questioningly.

Chance sighed and stirred the fire with a stick. “So many say. Aunt Millicent, Andrew’s sister, maintains that after he left me with Andrew and Martha, he became a transformed person. He stopped frequenting low taverns and the company to be found there and, even to this day, will only partake occasionally of a small portion of spirits. ’Tis said that it was around this time that he also began to work for Sam Walker like the meanest slave—he still does.” Chance frowned. “It is almost as if he is consumed with guilt and
only by working himself to the bone for Sam that he can atone for some black sin.”

Hugh laughed. “I know that Sam still talks of how stunned he was when he returned from England four years later and found this sober, reliable, hardworking young man in place of the drunken layabout he left behind when he took Mistress Letty to England after their son was born dead.”

“Four years!” Fancy exclaimed. “Mr. Walker was gone to England for four years?”

Hugh nodded. “Family legend has it that Sam returned home unexpectedly two days after the tragedy and that once he had seen where his stillborn son was buried, he simply scooped up his grief-stricken wife and whisked her away to England on the first ship that sailed.” Hugh glanced over at Ellen’s rapt features. “Of course, Sam never meant to be gone for so long,” he continued gravely, “but Cousin Jeremiah says that poor Mistress Letty just could not seem to bring herself to come back to the Colonies—to the place where her son had died. And so Sam simply placed his affairs in the hands of his business agents and played the English gentleman, until his wife was finally ready to return to Walker Ridge.”

“ ’Tis no secret that Morely has always relied on Sam’s judgment,” Chance said abruptly, “and I have wondered, having deposited me safely with Andrew and Martha, if he did not intend to return to Walker Ridge to discuss the situation with Sam.”

Hugh shrugged. “ ’Tis possible—but if that was his plan, it was unfortunate that during his absence Sam had returned to Walker Ridge and immediately departed for England—well beyond his reach. Since it is obvious that there is some mystery surrounding your birth, I doubt there was anything that he was willing to put in writing and trust that his letter would make its way into Sam’s hands in England.”

“And by the time Sam did return to Walker Ridge, four years had passed and there was nothing to discuss,” Chance said flatly.

Fancy could think of nothing to say as her eyes rested on
Chance’s dark, enigmatic features. Her heart ached a little for him, not for the hard man he had grown into, but for the bewildered boy he must have been. How terrible for him, she thought compassionately, not to have known who his parents were and as a young child to have been the object of the gossip and speculation that must have been rife amongst the Walkers.

Chance glanced up from his contemplation of the fire, and seeing the expression on her face, his lips thinned.

“I trust that your prurient interest in my antecedents, or lack thereof, is now satisfied,” he drawled, his eyes cool and hard. “And Duchess . . . I would warn you not to let that icy heart of yours feel any sympathy for me. Pity from the likes of you is the last thing that I want.”

Fancy glared at him, her compassion evaporating as the increasingly familiar desire to slap his mocking face rose within her. She stood up abruptly and shook out her ragged skirts. “Pity you?” she demanded disdainfully. “I think not. The ones I pity are Mr. Walker and his wife. Their son died and unfortunately you did not!”

Chance

The easiest person to deceive is one’s own self.

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

The Disowned

I
t had been a terrible thing to say, and as she lay on the ground later that night, Fancy writhed with shame. Turning restlessly in her blanket, she cursed her wayward tongue a thousand times and desperately sought forgetfulness in sleep. Sleep would not come, however, and the memory of her awful words kept repeating themselves in her brain.

What was wrong with her? she wondered fretfully. In her entire life, she had never spoken to anyone in the hateful manner in which she had Chance. She had always considered herself a calm, dignified, serene,
polite
sort of woman, the type of woman who
never
lost her temper. Yet around Chance Walker . . . Just one mocking word from him, one infuriating lift of his brows, one quirk of that long, mobile mouth, and she became lost to all decorum and dignity and turned into a raging virago, hotly spewing out the most appalling things, uncaring in that burst of fury if her words hurt. She grimaced. Not that anything
she
said could dent Chance’s thick, impenetrable hide! She sighed deeply. If only this wretched, interminable journey would end and she could be free of his obnoxiously disturbing presence. She could only hope that once they reached Walker Ridge she’d
be able to put events in perspective and view Chance Walker in a more favorable light—and recover her own composure.

Hidden by the darkness, Chance lounged on the ground not five feet away from Fancy, his back resting comfortably against the trunk of a tree, his hand lightly clasping the long black rifle that stood upright beside him. This close to her he could hear every sound she made as she wiggled and tossed on the ground, but he could have been twenty feet away and he still would have been aware of every single thing about her. Too damned aware, he thought disgustedly, his mouth thinning.

He’d hoped that upon closer association his initial interest in the baroness would fade. More than that, he’d been certain that the journey to Walker Ridge and her subsequent actions would effectively put an end to his inexplicable preoccupation with her. But it hadn’t. If anything, she now fascinated him more than she had in the beginning, and he was thoroughly annoyed by that fact.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He was supposed to see her at her worst, and God knew this trek would bring out the devil in just about anyone. But so far she had confounded him. She had been helpful and pleasant, at least to Hugh and her sister; she had not slowed them down with unnecessary demands, and she had not complained, or whined, or made a nuisance of herself—except with respect to his peace of mind, he admitted grimly.

Their journey was almost at an end, and Chance discovered himself oddly reluctant for the moment when Walker Ridge finally came into sight and the baroness was no longer his responsibility. He’d grown used to her, he thought with a sardonic twist of his lips. Used to watching that graceful slender form move about the camp; used to that soft, silvery chuckle of hers;
very
used to the way her eyes would glow with that golden light when she was angry; and used to the way her smile could lift his spirits—not that she ever smiled at
him
!

She was going to waste that lovely smile and that slim, beautiful body on that bastard Jonathan, and there wasn’t
one bloody thing he could do about it, Chance thought disgustedly. That knowledge ate at him, and every time he remembered how she’d felt in his arms, the sweet fire of her kiss, his determination to deny Jonathan those charms grew.

Why should Jonathan have her? he asked himself bitterly. He sure as hell didn’t deserve her.

The old, familiar feelings of hatred and revenge entwined in his heart whenever he let himself think of Jonathan, and tonight was no different. Jonathan had deliberately taken the only thing that had ever mattered to him and cruelly defiled it and, when through with it, had discarded it carelessly. The agony Chance had felt upon discovering that his wife had hanged herself and that she had been pregnant with another man’s child rose up inside of him, nearly choking him. Bleakly he wondered if he’d ever be able to remember Jenny without this terrible ache, this savage urge to rip out Jonathan Walker’s throat.

It had been months after Jenny’s death before he’d even been able to consider what had happened—to think about Jenny dying alone and frightened, abandoned by the one man who should have stood by her side—without wanting to smash something. By the time he’d been cool-headed enough to think about it unemotionally, he’d realized that it hadn’t been just lust for Jenny’s lovely body that had motivated Jonathan, but also the desire to strike at him. Chance’s lips tightened. Jonathan had been furious about the loss of those ten thousand acres in that card game, and he’d sworn vengeance. Chance didn’t doubt for a moment that seducing Jenny had been Jonathan’s way of paying him back. Whether Jonathan had known that Jenny would conceive a child and kill herself when he abandoned her or not was moot. She had, and for that reason alone—cuckolding him had little to do with his need for vengeance—Jonathan deserved to suffer. And what better way to revenge himself against the man who had destroyed his wife than to steal the one woman who meant everything to Jonathan?