armed, and there are numerous slaves and indentured servants about, as well as several other men who work for me. We are too strong for any Indians to think seriously of attacking us.”
“Not unless Chance Walker were to incite them against us,” Jonathan said grimly.
Sam sighed. “I thought,” he said quietly, “that we had decided to drop the subject of Chance Walker?”
* * *
Chance wouldn’t have been surprised at the way Jonathan continued to defame his name. After all, bitter experience had taught him that vilifying and destroying another’s character was simply Jonathan’s way. Chance expected little else from the other man—lies, hints, and innuendo were the young Mr. Walker’s stock-in-trade.
Chance tried not to dwell very often on his rancorous feud with the heir to the Walker fortune, but Jonathan, and his hatred of him, were never far from Chance’s mind. Even the sight of the seductive little creature who had clung so confidingly to Jonathan’s arm couldn’t keep away the dark, ugly thoughts that deviled him as he left the wharf a few minutes after the Walker party had departed in their carriage.
He, like most of even the slightest acquaintances of the Walkers, had been aware that Jonathan was returning home from England and that he was bringing a baroness with him. Constance had trumpeted the news to all and sundry for days after she had received Jonathan’s letter imparting the thrilling news. Her conversation had been full of “when the baroness arrives” or “the baroness and her younger sister will be staying with us . . . an extended visit, of course,” or “The baroness is a widow, you know,” which was followed with such an arch look that the listener was left with the impression that a betrothal would soon be in the offing.
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 erasethe 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
“Not unless Chance Walker were to incite them against us,” Jonathan said grimly.
Sam sighed. “I thought,” he said quietly, “that we had decided to drop the subject of Chance Walker?”
* * *
Chance wouldn’t have been surprised at the way Jonathan continued to defame his name. After all, bitter experience had taught him that vilifying and destroying another’s character was simply Jonathan’s way. Chance expected little else from the other man—lies, hints, and innuendo were the young Mr. Walker’s stock-in-trade.
Chance tried not to dwell very often on his rancorous feud with the heir to the Walker fortune, but Jonathan, and his hatred of him, were never far from Chance’s mind. Even the sight of the seductive little creature who had clung so confidingly to Jonathan’s arm couldn’t keep away the dark, ugly thoughts that deviled him as he left the wharf a few minutes after the Walker party had departed in their carriage.
He, like most of even the slightest acquaintances of the Walkers, had been aware that Jonathan was returning home from England and that he was bringing a baroness with him. Constance had trumpeted the news to all and sundry for days after she had received Jonathan’s letter imparting the thrilling news. Her conversation had been full of “when the baroness arrives” or “the baroness and her younger sister will be staying with us . . . an extended visit, of course,” or “The baroness is a widow, you know,” which was followed with such an arch look that the listener was left with the impression that a betrothal would soon be in the offing.
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 erasethe 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
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