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After they had dined, Gayoso and Morgan had excused themselves from the ladies of the family and had spent the remainder of the evening, doing as gentlemen do so often, drinking and gambling in a handsome room the governor had set aside for that purpose.
    A few more gentlemen had joined them, all strangers to Morgan, but they had proved to be agreeable company, particularly an aristocratic old gentleman by the name of Saint-Andre. The Frenchman had a witty tongue and a pleasing manner, and Morgan had found himself enjoying Saint-Andre's company immensely... at first. He had not enjoyed watching Saint-Andre become drunker and drunker, nor had he been comfortable watching Gayoso accept vowel after vowel from a man obviously unable to realize what he was doing.
    But Gayoso's actions didn't come as a surprise to Morgan. The governor was a curious blend of avarice and generosity, and some of his methods of gaining money—and Gayoso always had need of money—were neither nice nor proper. Unable to stand by and watch the old man openly robbed, Morgan had put an end to Gayoso's unfair practice simply by calling it an evening. He adroitly convinced the completely inebriated Saint-Andre that he too should retire for the night. Morgan even found himself offering to escort the old man to his home.
    Saint-Andre had been flattered, but he had declined, explaining somewhat incoherently that his own servants were waiting and that they would see him to his townhouse as they usually did. Feeling there was nothing more he could do, Morgan had bowed, made his adieus and retired for the night, Saint-Andre vanishing from his mind.
    Morgan had slept soundly at first, but then just as dawn had been breaking on the horizon, the nightmare began again. It was always the same dream and it had haunted him from the moment he had seen his little son's lifeless body lying in that shady glen on the Natchez Trace. In his dream Morgan knew Phillippe was in terrible, mortal danger, and urgently, fear shrieking throughout his body, he rode desperately to rescue him. To his horror, he always arrived just in time to see a dark stranger slit his son's young throat and then disappear into the green jungle of the Trace, leaving Phillippe to strangle in his own blood. And, as happened this morning, Morgan would come awake with his heart pounding uncontrollably, his body bathed in sweat, his brain silently screaming out an anguished, furious denial.
    If Morgan woke from the night's sleep with a nightmare, for Claude Saint-Andre the waking was an entirely different matter. It was true that his head was pounding like an African drum and that his mouth felt as if the entire Spanish Army had trampled through it, but he was full of confidence and excitement. He had found Leonie's husband! Monsieur Morgan Slade was everything a man could wish for in a granddaughter's husband! He was handsome, wealthy, and honorable—Claude had not been so drunk that he had not realized the motives behind Morgan's abrupt ending of the evening. Morgan Slade had given the definite impression of being a strong, determined young man who would brook no nonsense from a willful, headstrong little minx like Leonie. Claude was elated.
    There would be difficulties, to be sure, but Claude, with his usual disregard of unpleasant facts, waved them aside. He would contrive. Naturellement!
    As could be expected, that afternoon when Claude informed Leonie that he had found her a husband she was less than pleased. She had been furious at being compelled to leave Chateau Saint-Andre to come to their shabby townhouse for the express purpose of being married off to the first convenient man her grandfather found. It had been bad enough being forced to agree to grandfather's infamous bargain, but to have a prospective husband shoved down her throat on their fourth day in New Orleans was more than she could swallow.
    The sea-green eyes flashing with helpless anger, Leonie had asked bitterly, "And this Monsieur