Christie (6 page)

Wickedly, she grinned at him.

"Enjoy your swim, Mr. Randall!"

Then she turned to mount Thunder. Suddenly she spied, in a heap under a nearby tree, a pile of male clothing—
his
clothing!

Her mind worked quickly. The humiliation of having to walk back might smart some, but how would he feel if he had to do it without any clothes on!

Chortling gleefully, she glanced over her shoulder to discover him still staring at her from the water, but with a decidedly angry frown on his face. She made her decision. He was stuck in the water without his clothes and that would trap him there while she took the time to pick up his garments and make off with them.

This she proceeded to do, laughing merrily to herself as she stooped to grab them, when suddenly she realized that he was not going to let the mere fact
of his nakedness keep him in the water—he was coming after her!

Shrieking in disbelief, she dropped the clothes and lunged toward the spot where Thunder stood, hoping now only to get away.

But Garrett was a bolt of lightning, anger feeding the energy that filled his unencumbered limbs, and in a few seconds he was upon her as she tried, unsuccessfully, to mount her horse.

"Loose my horse and steal my clothes, would you?"

He had one muscular arm tightly about her waist while the other was wrapped around her chest, binding her arms helplessly at her sides as she tried to struggle free.

"Young lady, I think it's time you were taught a lesson in manners and polite conduct toward one's guests!" His tone was angry, the words coming out as if he were biting them off, one by one.

Then, casting about as if in search of something, he spied a fallen tree trunk and, dragging Christie with him, he moved toward it and took a seat.

Christie finally found her voice then; her shock until now had rendered her fairly speechless. She screeched, "You bloody bastard, let me go!"

"Ah-ah, that's no way for a lady to speak, either," he mocked. "Looks like you're long overdue for this."

And with a single movement, he proceeded to turn her across his knees and soundly spank her tightly clad bottom with his open hand.

Pure rage coupled with the humiliating indignity of it all, welled up in Christie, and with each
resounding wallop, she shrieked and yelled at him at the top of her voice, but Garrett's voice rose above hers.

"This," he said—whack!—"ought to teach"— whack!—"a young female"—whack!—"who's about to turn eighteen"—whack!—"not to behave like a child,"—whack! "Or she'll have to suffer"—whack! —"the consequences"—whack!—"a child would endure!"—a final whack!

Christie's shrieks were by now interspersed by tears, but more from anger than from the pain to her buttocks.

"How
dare
you!" she choked out between angry sobs. "How
dare
you!"

Garrett now stood up, but he did not yet release her. Instead, picking up her bodily, he marched to the water's edge, all the while laughing at her feeble efforts to disengage herself from him.

"No!" she screamed. "You can't do this—"

Laughing loudly by now, with an upward toss, he threw her deliberately into the pool, clothes and all.

Christie hit the water with a resounding splash and the shock of its icy temperature almost knocked the breath out of her. In numb fury, she rose to the surface, sputtering and spewing water, and if looks had been able to kill, Garrett wouldn't have had a prayer.

Ignoring her obvious fury, Garrett stood, hands on hips, and called to her in a casual voice.

"I have to be getting back now. Your father is expecting me at the house at four o'clock. Since you have sent my mount running, I am forced to use your gray. You have a choice. You can hurry up out of
there and join us, or you can walk back by yourself. Which will it be?"

Christie looked at him in dumb amazement.

"Well," he drawled, "make up your mind. I'm not in the habit of being late for an appointment."

Still looking dumbfounded and in abject humiliation, Christie maneuvered to the edge of the pool and climbed out. She knew she looked a sight. The thin summer clothes she wore stuck to her body, clinging fully to every curve and hollow, leaving little to the imagination, and as she looked down, she saw that the nipples of her breasts had peaked from the iciness of the water and were thrusting forward noticeably beneath the now-transparent material of her shirt.

Flushing a bright crimson, she crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to cover herself.

"I—I can't go—like this," she stuttered.

With a chuckle, Garrett, who in the meantime had begun to dress himself, came toward her with his own dry shirt. He was wearing his tight riding breeches and boots, but was naked from the waist up.

He met her as she reached a grassy place beside the pool, and with a final glance at her distress, wrapped his shirt around her shoulders. Then he was lifting her up again and in a moment had her in Thunder's saddle while he took the reins and, with a single movement, mounted behind her. With a brief pressure from his knees at the big horse's sides, they were off in the direction of the main house.

Christie endured the ride back with as much silent dignity as she could muster. She tried not to notice how his brown, well-muscled forearm made contact with her breasts as it held her in front of him in the
saddle, and whenever they hit an uneven patch on the path, she swore silently as the stinging sensation in her buttocks reminded her of one of her many reasons to wish this man dead.

They made the ride in total silence until finally they neared the guest cottage where she knew he'd

been staying.

"Guess this will be far enough for me," he intoned in that same mocking drawl he seemed to reserve especially for her. "Thanks for the ride. I suppose you can find your way to the house alone?"

Glaring at him, she refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.

"You can return the shirt at some more convenient time," he said, eying her barely disguised semi-nakedness beneath the wet clothes. "At the moment, you seem to have more need of it than I do." Then, with a brief parting grin, he turned and strode off toward the guesthouse.

Silently seething, Christie made her way to the back door of the main house alone.

That evening Charles and Garrett dined alone in the large dining room, Christie having sent word that she was not feeling well and would be taking supper in her room.

"I can't understand it," puzzled Charles. "I saw her just this afternoon looking fit and energetic as she rode off after lunch. I'd better go up after dinner and see if there's anything seriously wrong. Almeira says it's nothing to worry about, but I'd feel better if I checked myself."

He missed the faint glint of amusement in Garrett's eyes as his guest forked a piece of roasted
fowl into his mouth.

Christie would have remained in her room for more than the total of three meals she missed at the table had it not been for the arrival of Aunt Celia the following afternoon. While Charles had been satisfied with Christie's complaint of feeling "just not very well," his sister, once having examined her niece with all the thoroughness she had employed since Christie was little^ she declared that her present state of ill health was "imaginary" and insisted she descend from her room and begin acting like a young woman about to turn eighteen in two days. The aunt's final order came about largely because of the arrival of some early guests for the ball.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Seymour were friends of Charles' who lived in Richmond and their late-afternoon arrival heralded what would be a continual flow of people who would spend several days as guests of the Trevellyans, culminating in the celebration of the ball itself.

Aunt Celia was urging Christie to hurry and finish dressing so they might greet the Seymours by having tea on the terrace, and Christie reluctantly complied with her aunt's wishes.

Giving a last glance at herself in the mirror, she decided she approved of what she saw and followed Celia out of the room.

As they descended the stairs, Christie a youthful vision in summer white, Celia wearing her usual pale lavender, they heard more than one female voice coming from the terrace, and among the male voices which blended in, Christie recognized Charles' deep
baritone and, yes, that low, throaty chuckle could only belong to Garrett Randall.

Taking a deep breath, she tilted her chin slightly higher than usual and followed her aunt onto the terrace.

Noticing their entrance, Charles stepped forward to take his sister's hand and flashed Christie a quick
smile.

"Ah, my dears! You're just in time to meet our guests before we take tea. Lavinia, Richard, you both remember my sister, Celia? And this, of course, is
Christie."

He placed an arm about his daughter's waist, marshaling her forward, and Christie made a polite curtsy to the older couple.

Lavinia Seymour was a simple, good-natured woman who had known her mother, and Christie gave her the warm smile she reserved especially for friends she knew well.

"Christie, I'd hardly have recognized you—you've become such a beauty," said Lavinia, hugging Christie affectionately.

Richard Seymour, who was Lavinia's second husband, having wed her five years before, bowed politely and smiled.

"I never knew your mother, as Vinnie did, but from all I've heard of her, you certainly have inherited her beauty, my dear," said Richard.

Christie smiled politely, but her attention was drawn to the far end of the terrace where Garrett Randall was involved in conversation with a stunning brunette in her mid-twenties.

Noticing his daughter's glance, Charles broke in,
"The Seymours have brought a surprise guest with them, darlin'—Richard's recently widowed daughter, by his first marriage."

Charles was propelling Christie in the direction of the closely conversing couple, who broke off their dialogue when they noticed their host.

"Ah, Mr. Randall, Mistress Mayfield, please excuse the interruption, but I don't believe all the introductions have been made. Mistress Mayfield— er, Laurette, is it? May I present my daughter, Christie Trevellyan?"

The dark-haired woman then turned from Garrett, upon whom she had been working a coy smile, and surveyed the younger woman whose entrance she had already noted out of the corner of her eye. Her reaction was instant dislike, for Laurette Mayfield had long been used to being the center of attention at any social gathering she attended, and her quick assessment of Christie's unsurpassed, fresh, young beauty gave her every reason to regard the girl as a detestable rival. Half-closing her heavy-lidded dark eyes, she purred vaguely in Christie's direction.

"Why, yes, the child whose birthday we celebrate. How charming!"

Christie bristled at the remark, finding it especially smarting in the wake of Garrett's recent treatment of her, and she suddenly became determined not to say or do anything now that would reveal her to be anything but a mature young woman. Drawing herself up into her most elegant posture, she smiled sweetly as she responded.

"My dear Mistress Mayfield, welcome to Windreach. How courageous of you not to let your state of
mourning interfere with your enjoyment of a social life. They say a true
observation of mourning can be so boring!"

As she spoke, she took in the widow's appearance. Laurette was a good three inches shorter than Christie and had a voluptuously well-rounded figure, fully apparent beneath the black clothes she wore. But if they were widow's weeds, noted Christie, it was only their color that made them so, for every line of the brunette's gown seemed designed with only one thing in mind—to draw attention to an amply endowed figure. Her fair skin suggested she never appeared in the summer sun without a protective bonnet, long sleeves, and gloves, for it was white and flawless, and against it the dark eyes that looked out from her beautiful oval face were worldly and knowing.

Now, as she regarded her, Christie was aware she wasn't the only one looking the young widow over; Garrett Randall's eyes roamed casually over Laurette's black-clad form and Christie was annoyed to find that this irritated her. What she hadn't noticed was how, while she had been taking in the widow, Garrett's gaze had thoroughly surveyed her own lithe form, making no secret he liked what he saw
there.

But Laurette had not missed his appraisal of Christie, and with all the artful winsomeness her experience could muster, she leaned on Garrett's arm and cooed, "Oh, Mr. Randall, I do believe tea is finally served. Won't you tell me how you like yours? I'd
love
to fix you a cup myself." And shooting Christie a disdainful glance, she brushed directly
past her and Charles, and moved toward the tea table across the terrace.

"Really, Laurette," said Charles, moving after her, "there are servants here well-trained to serve tea—"

"Never mind, Father," said Christie in a voice loud enough for Laurette to hear. "Some people just naturally find themselves
suited
for certain kinds of tasks."

Then Christie looked up to find Garrett studying her. She was feeling good about herself at the moment, enjoying a newly found confidence that stemmed from her success at dealing with the widow's threatening barbs and looks, and this gave her the courage to face him in this, their first encounter since the incident in the woods.

"I hope you are enjoying yourself, Mr. Randall," she said in her most polite tone of voice. "I'm afraid tea parties have a way of becoming boring."

"Sometimes one needs the relaxation of quieter recreations," Garrett replied, grinning down at her, "to offset those of a more exciting nature—swim parties, for example, which are anything but boring."

Christie flushed hotly at the remark, her anger rising, so swiftly to the surface that it threatened to disrupt all her resolutions to behave in an adult fashion.

"You'd better go and have your tea, sir, for it is readily obvious that its civilizing effects ought be availed of none too soon in your case."

And with the sound of his low laughter in her ear, she turned and went to join the Seymours as they
chatted with her aunt.

Garrett's grin broadened as he watched her slender hips move beguilingly away from him, and his look was caught by Laurette as she returned with his cup of tea.

Frowning in the direction of his glance, the widow handed him his cup before picking up her black lace fan and fluttering it rapidly while she gave Garrett a thoroughly coquettish look.

"Tell me all about the Charleston low country, Mr. Randall. Since its your home, I'm sure it must be a
fascinating
place."

As Christie sat down beside her aunt, she churned with fury. She might have known he'd behave insufferably true-to-form. Oh, why had she even bothered to address him at all? And he thought he would give
her
lessons in manners! The arrogant bastard! Well, she had learned her own lesson regarding Garrett Randall. From now until he left, she would have nothing more to do with him, beyond the barest civilities. Laurette Mayfield was welcome to him. They deserved each other! But out of the corner of her eye, as she saw Garrett bending to whisper something in Laurette's ear and heard the brunette's responding laughter, she wondered why she felt the urge to take the teacup she now held in one delicate hand, and smash it to the ground.

Dinner that evening was a long and difficult affair for Christie. She found herself seated between Richard Seymour and Garrett, who was across from Laurette. Her latest determination to avoid Randall forced her to turn her conversation toward Seymour,
who was not the wittiest dinner guest to be found, and to make things worse, her proximity to Garrett and the widow made it impossible to avoid overhearing every syllable of that preying female's overly obvious attempts to captivate and beguile the handsome South Carolina bachelor.

It was plain to see that Laurette Mayfield was letting no grass grow under her feet where men were concerned. Why, her late husband might not yet be cold in his tomb, and here was his widow, flirting and playing the coquette's she lined up her next quarry! And it was equally obvious, Christie noted with barely disguised dissatisfaction, that Garrett Randall was enjoying his role in the whole disgusting display!

Finally relieved to find dinner over, Christie pleaded a headache and excused herself from the company of the other women, who had gathered in the drawing room while the men stayed to linger over their brandy and cigars. The last thing she needed was to find herself trapped in a room with Laurette Mayfield!
,

Once in her chamber, she quickly changed to her riding breeches and made her way down the servants' staircase to the kitchen where she found a small cone of sugar. Breaking off a piece for Thunder, she slipped out and headed for the stables. She had seen little of him in the last few days, since she'd been avoiding Garrett, and she guiltily promised herself to make it up to the big horse when Randall was gone.