Christie (11 page)

"Never!"

"Well, that's a moot point. The question does not arise. I told you I was putting you out of mind. Good night, Christie."

He turned to leave, and Christie stood there mutely for a moment, feeling herself beset by a confusion of emotions she couldn't begin to sort out or decipher, but somehow, she didn't want him to leave like this.

"Garrett, wait!" she called. "I... agree to the
bargain," she said softly, barely recognizing her own voice or knowing why she had said it.

He whirled around to face her, and she almost ran from the look she saw on his face, not even sure what it signaled. Was it desire? Conquest? Slowly, she stepped toward him and then stopped, a few paces short of where he stood.

"Well?" he drawled. "Don't stop there. I want you to come to
me,
Christie."

Hesitantly, she complied. "Damn!" she thought. "Why does he make everything so difficult?" But she closed the gap between them and stopped just in front of him, looking up with uncertainty in her face. He had never appeared so handsome. The moon, which had just appeared from behind the high roof of the house, cast its light across his features, softening them and bestowing on his face an ethereal quality that made her breath catch in her throat.

Slowly, he reached out, placing his curled fingers under her chin, tilting it up toward him as his warm gaze continued to fall on her wondering face.

Then he slipped his other arm around her waist, drawing her slowly to him. All the while his eyes never left hers. The fingers under her chin slid up along her cheek and then to her ear as he traced it lightly with a single finger. Finally, he wrapped both arms about her as his head lowered to find her mouth.

His lips, as they met hers, were in no way the hard and insistent ones Christie had remembered, but warm and sensuous as they moved slowly over her own. Unhurriedly, languidly, they did their work, and once more, Christie felt her body responding with its own will.

Her arms slid up and about his neck almost by themselves as her entire body felt curiously warm and cold at the same time. Giddily, her thoughts began to push and pull in rippling confusion as she forgot where she was, or when, as the only reality became the feel of his mouth on hers, the scent of him, the strength of his big, lean body pressing close to her, and she began to kiss him back with as much fervor as her untaught lips would allow. Untold minutes passed as time seemed to lose its meaning, and they stood there joined in the warmth of each other's arms.

At last, he released the pressure on her mouth, drawing his head up, but continuing to hold her while his green eyes again fastened on hers. Then he spoke, his voice a husky whisper.

"Do you know you would have made a perfect courtesan?" he asked.

For all her pliant mood of moments before, Christie went cold and rigid as polar ice, and because he wasn't expecting it this time, she drew sharply back and struck him smartly across the face.

Viciously, she snarled at him, "You ill-bred blackguard! Take your honeyed kisses and ply them in your own state. For me, you can't be leaving Virginia soon enough!"

And with trembling chin and shaking body, she ran off the terrace, moving quickly among the familiar shrubs and hedges, not needing more than the faint shimmer of moonlight to find her way to the stall in the stables, her place of refuge since her twelfth birthday. She didn't stop until she heard the soft whinny that greeted her from the darkness.

Throwing her arms about Thunder's big gray
neck, she burst into tears.

"Oh, Thunder," she sobbed, "I hate him—
hate
him! I never want to see him again—ever!"

Leaning against the big horse, she continued this way for some time, softly sobbing away at the upsetting emotions set off within her, at length calming down to the point where she felt in control again, when suddenly she heard a noise coming from the loft above her head.

Quickly stifling any sounds of her own, she held her breath as she heard threads of conversation sifting down to her.

"But, Beau, darling, everybody knows a proper young lady can't let a boy—even a handsome one like you—have his way with her! What would happen to her honor?"

Cousin Melissa! Christie would know those honeyed, simpering tones anywhere! Then she recognized Beau Richardson's low, youthful baritone.

"Melissa, honey, this is different. I
love
you. Please, honey." The voice was thick and husky.

"No, Beau, I just couldn't. Besides, I don't really believe you love me. .. . If I let you, would you marry me?"

"Anything, darling, only just let me—"

"No, I don't think so. You're just leading me on. Take me back to the ball now. I'm afraid Mamma will miss me."

As Melissa began to move down the ladder, Christie quickly stole behind a barrel of oats which was placed conveniently near to Thunder's stall, and took advantage of the shadows to hide her movements. This was done none too soon, for now down came Beau, storming down past Melissa as she reached the ground level, and quickly passing to the outer door. His voice was angry.

"All right, Melissa Stanhope, Miss
Tease,
you go ahead and keep your virtuous little body to yourself. I'm leaving, and don't go figuring I'm going to be around, begging your virginal little favors any longer. There are other fish in the sea!"

"Beau, wait—don't leave me. I was only fooling. Honest, honey, come back!"

"No, I don't think so, Melissa"—the anger softened a bit—"You'll just never consent to part with that virginally chaste body you prize so highly, and I'm through pleading!"

With this, he moved through the stable door, slamming it behind him.

"Beau, honey, please come back!" called Melissa, running after him, and when no answer came, she added, "And besides . . . who said I was a virgin?"

Only seconds passed when the stable door opened and Beau stepped back inside. Christie could see him grinning as he swept her cousin in a tight embrace. Breathing heavily, he led her back up the ladder, to the loft.

"But do you really love me?"

"Of course I do, Melissa sweet, of course I do."

"And you'll marry me?"

"Mmm, sure I will, darling."

These were the last words a shaken Christie heard as she made her way, quickly and softly, from the dark stable with the rustling noises in its even darker loft.

Chapter Eight

Christie rose with a start from what had been a restless sleep. Sitting up in the bed, she looked around at the familiar chamber and shivered, though-the air was warm. She began to recall the details of her nightmare as she sat there, eyes wide with fright.

In the dream she was walking through a dark wood, moving toward a sunny clearing she could see far ahead, where Thunder stood, neighing for her to hurry; but as she approached, a tall figure stepped out of the darkness and barred the way. She sidestepped as if to move around him, but as she did so, his arms reached out and enfolded her. While she struggled in the embrace, she caught sight of his face. It was Garrett Randall! Managing to wrest free, she began to run toward the clearing, but just as she reached it, Thunder turned into Randall! Opening her mouth to scream, she woke up.

Just then, a soft knocking came at the door, accompanied by Almeira's voice.

"Miss Christie, are you awake?"

The door opened.

"It's nine o'clock and Mr. Charles is asking for you
downstairs. Some of the guests are beginning to stir, and when I told him you were sleeping late, he asked that I see if you're feeling well and if so, bids you join him for breakfast."

She went toward the windows and drew open the drapes, flooding the room with sunlight.

"Nine o'clock! Meirie, how could I have slept so late?"

"I don't know myself. It's not like you, child. Are you feeling all right? The headache that sent you to bed so early from your own ball—it must have been bad to do that. . . . You weren't drinking the champagne, were you, Miss Christie?"

"No, Meirie—only punch. But I feel fine now. I hope I can make the proper apologies to the guests when I see them today."

She decided not to mention her nightmare and jumped briskly out of bed, feeling restored now, by the cheery warmth of the sunny room.

"Please tell Father I'll be down soon. Oh, Meirie, I think I'll wear that yellow morning gown you and Aunt Celia have been trying to get me into. It's too late for me to go riding now, and Father might enjoy it if I dressed to breakfast with him."

As Almeira left, Christie moved rapidly through her morning bath, humming a soft tune to herself as she worked to dispel any lingering ghosts of the difficult night.

The gown she had chosen was a buttercup yellow of the softest muslin, sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Its neckline was unusually low for a morning dress—another of Madame Celeste's inspirations—with only the narrowest strip of ruffled

lace to shield the high roundness of her breasts as they curved sensuously above the bodice. Matching lace fell elaborately from tight sleeves ending at the elbows. The long skirt billowed out from the panniers, separating in front to reveal a blue- and white-striped underskirt. She donned matching yellow kid slippers and waited as Almeira tied her hair back simply with a narrow blue ribbon, allowing one shiny curl to lie enticingly over the left shoulder while the rest cascaded heavily down her back.

A quick glance in the mirror assured her of the charming appearance she would present to her pleased father, and with a smile she tripped lightly downstairs to breakfast.

Langston told her she could find Charles on the terrace, but as she approached, she could hear more than one male voice in conversation there.

"The gray's untried as well, sir." It was Timothy Ryan's brogue.

"Don't I know that, Tim?" Charles retorted. "But Mr. Randall's aware of that. It's the question of my daughter's . . . Christie! My dear, what a vision you are this morning! I trust you're recovered from your headache? Come, sit and join us. Here, sit down next to me," he said, indicating a chair. "It'll do my old eyes good to feast on your beauty beside me, darlin'."

Christie stiffened slightly as she moved to her seat. Of course, he would still be here! He had said their business could wait until today. Damn! She should have gone riding!

"Good morning, Father . . . gentlemen!"

Old Ryan smiled a broad, gap-toothed greeting at

her. She had been a favorite of his since she was old enough for her first pony, and he was clearly delighted to be present at table with the young lass.

Garrett rose to help her to her chair, and as he began to speak, she couldn't help noticing how his eyes swept over her, lingering somewhat longer than necessary on the full, ripe curves of her breasts.

"Once again I have the rare pleasure of your company, Christie. Would that all my business meetings could be so enhanced." The corners of his mouth turned up in the familiar mocking curve.

"You've arrived just in time, my dear," said Charles. "As you know, Garrett's made his selection of mares, and we've already arranged their transport to his plantation near Charleston, but the current question has to do with the all-important selection of a new stud," he explained. "The need, as he sees it, is to find one with a good bit of Arabian blood, and, as I told him, I'm afraid we can't help him out with such an animal at this time because the only blooded stallion with heavy Arabian parentage at Windreach is—"

"Thunder," she said flatly.

"Yes, Thunder," said Charles. "But as Tim and I have been explaining to Garrett, the gray is not only not for sale, but your pleasure horse, and an untried stallion, to boot. Now he's come up with the notion of leasing him from us for a short term, so the question of his not being for sale would not apply, but that still leaves the other obstacles, Garrett, and I don't see a way around them."

"The question of his being untried is one I'm prepared to take my chances with. I've seen the horse.

His lines are excellent, and to have the opportunity to incorporate them into my breeding plan, I'd be willing to take the necessary risks. I'll pay well, as you already know, for any leasing arrangement you and Christie would care to draw up; you can name the terms."

As he spoke, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his long muscular legs out in front of him, and lit a cheroot, letting the smoke drift lazily over his head.

"Then that leaves the question of his being Christie's pleasure horse, and it's here I'm afraid the barrier becomes insurmountable," said Charles. "There's no telling how using Thunder for breeding might change him."

"Aye," said Tim, "I've seen many a tame enough stallion become an unmanageable beast once he's had a go at the mares, sir."

Charles was silent for a moment. Then, looking toward Christie as he spoke, he said, "Garrett, Christie is my only child, and the love I bear her cannot be described in words. She loves the gray, and will ride no other. To jeopardize their relationship is something I couldn't bring myself to do, and that's what it would come to, should studding the horse make him too wild for her. Furthermore, knowing my daughter, there's an added danger. Say that we agreed to the arrangement, and Thunder came back to us unridable. Christie would never accept such a pronouncement—"