Rebel Waltz (14 page)

“Oh, good, chocolate cake for dessert.”

“And you're blushing. That's a lost art.”

“Well, I just found it.”

“Suits you, too.”

“Have some cake.”

“I'd rather have you.”

“Right here in a field?” she asked politely.

“On a blanket. We'll have a pagan ritual— how does that sound?”

“Creative.”

“And?”

“And I think I'd better wrap the cake back up…”

Banner had believed that the past two weeks had made her accustomed to his touch, but she discovered the difference between the touch of a lover and the touch of a man who wanted to be a lover.

There was a new tenderness in him, and their familiarity with each other seemed only to sharpen his fascination with her—and for her.

Each touch lingered and each glance seemed to deepen, heavy with promise. And light words only added to the depth of feelings, rather than masked them.

“D'you know my toes curl up when you smile at me?”

“I'll make a note of that.”

“And that my heart turns flips like a landed fish?”

“Interesting.”

“And that I can't breathe?”

“Rory, maybe you'd better see a doctor.”

“There's no cure for what I've got, milady.”

“They're making tremendous advances in medical science.”

“If they can't cure the common cold, they sure as hell can't cure lovesickness.”

“Maybe they could give you shots to lessen the effects.”

“I think I'll just suffer bravely through it.”

“My hero.”

“Your hero is hungry.”

“You should have eaten the cake.”

“That was hours ago. No wonder I'm starving.”

“Well, it isn't time for dinner yet.”

“Let's raid the kitchen.”

“If you love me, you won't irritate the cook; she's the sixth one this year.”

“No man hath greater love than mine.”

“Good.”

“I'll sneak into the kitchen ….”

They spent their nights in the cottage, warm, magical nights of love and ever- deepening desire. Although Rory was usually up first, he awoke late one morning and found Banner awake, dressed only in his button-up shirt, and leaning against the brass footrail of the bed with a sketch pad on her knees.

“What're you doing?” he asked sleepily.

She didn't reply for a moment, the charcoal pencil in her fingers flying over the page. Then she looked up with a smile, tucking the pencil
behind an ear and turning the pad so that he could see it. “Sketching you.”

In a few delicate lines and with soft shading, she'd captured him as he lay on his stomach, face half- buried in the pillow. The sheet rode low over his hips, and a shaft of sunlight through the window cast highlights and shadows over his tanned body and sleeping, unaware face.

Rory stared at the sketch for a long moment, coming fully awake. He was first startled by the completeness of his image, by the fact that she'd been able to depict him so totally with only spare lines and shading. Then the similarity between himself and that imaginary man out in the studio struck him more strongly than ever before.

“That's me?” he ventured uncertainly, seeing more character in the sketch than he thought his own face held.

“It's you.” Then, softly, she added, “Asleep. With all your defenses down.”

He looked at her. “That's why you sketched me?”

“D'you mind?”

He reflected for a moment before answering. “No. I've seen you asleep and vulnerable, after all. But do I look so different awake?”

Banner laid the sketch pad aside and stretched out on her side, facing him. “If you want to see how you look awake,” she advised, “go out into the studio and look at the Southern gent. It's you, Rory. I don't know why it started out looking so much like you, but I finished it with you in mind.”

Since he'd studied the painting often during the past couple of days, Rory was quite familiar with it. “Then you've paid me quite a compliment,” he said wryly.

“Not at all. I just painted what I see every time I look at you.”

Rory drew her slowly toward him. “I wish,” he whispered huskily, “I could paint you the way I see you. But I've no talent in that area, milady. And even if I had talent, I don't think I could paint my Banner.” His fingers found the charcoal pencil and tossed it toward the sketch pad
as he rolled gently to pull her on top of him. “How could I paint a soft voice and laughter, to say nothing of impossibly green eyes? How could I paint a touch that sends me to heaven and a warm and beloved presence I need so badly at my side? How could I paint quick intelligence and humor—and a temper I've been warned about but never seen?”

“I think,” she murmured just before his lips touched hers, “you've more talent than you know….”

Quite some time later, she asked curiously, “Who warned you about my temper?”

“Jake, of course.”

“Treacherous snake. What'd he say?”

“That you could flay the hide off a man wearing a suit of armor while standing twenty paces away and without raising your voice above a soft murmur.”

“He exaggerates.”

“He called that an understatement.”

“He would.”

“I, of course, defended you.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Certainly. I told him that there was no way my lady would be so undignified as to do something like that.”

“Thank you.”

“She'd smile while flaying the hide off an armored man at twenty paces without raising her voice above a soft murmur.”

“How would you know? I've never gotten mad at you.”

“I know that, and it's like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Why do I hear the sound of a guilty conscience in those words?”

“I can't imagine.”

“Rory?”

“Milady?”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“You sound like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

“I feel like I'm sitting on a keg of dynamite— and I'm not about to hand you a match.”

“You're making me nervous.”

“Then you know how I feel.”

“I think we'd both feel better if that other shoe dropped.”

“Do you? I, on the other hand, would prefer that it never touched the ground.”

“Rory.”

“Trust me.”

“How can I, when you think it'll make me mad?”

“I don't think it'll make you mad. I'm reasonably sure it'll make you mad.”

“This is getting worse by the minute.”

“What I'm doing, you see, is appealing to your intelligence.”

“How so?”

“Well, when I finally do confess my horrible crime, you'll remind yourself that you're going to surprise me by not getting mad.”

“Sure about that?”

“Can't blame a man for trying.”

“ ‘Horrible crime,’ huh?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Why am I playing guessing games with you instead of hitting you over the head with a rolling pin and demanding an answer?” she wondered thoughtfully.

“Because you're a lady,” he answered, wounded.

“That's never stopped me before.”

“You make a practice of hitting men over the head?”

“No, but my flaying ability has been honed to a fine art.”

“I thought you said Jake exaggerated.”

“I lied.”

“Deceitful wench.”

“The pot's definitely scorning the kettle. Are you going to confess?”

“I think I'll let you calm down first.”

“Who's not calm? I'm calm.”

“There are danger signals in your lovely green eyes, milady.”

“Your imagination. Confess.”

“I think I just heard Jake calling us—”

“Confess!”

“When the sun goes down. There's more room to hide in the dark.”

With a very thoughtful—and unthreatening— expression, Banner slid from the bed and began dressing, fully aware of Rory watching her in enjoyment. “You aren't going to confess, then?” she asked musingly, fastening her shorts, then standing with hands on hips as she gazed down at the man on the bed.

“I'd rather put it off as long as possible,” he admitted.

Frowning slightly, she bent to gather his clothes from the floor, then straightened. “Sure?” Her tone was that of a woman who wants to be very certain of her facts.

Rory began to get uneasy. “I'm sure.” Stalling for time, he reached for his watch on the night-stand and peered at it. “Hey—breakfast should be ready. Want to hand me my clothes?”

Her frown dissolving and a gentle smile
growing, Banner slowly backed toward the door. “Not really,” she said sweetly.

He sat up, alarmed. “Banner? Where're you going?”

“Breakfast,” she reminded softly.

Rory glanced down at the tangle of sheets that was his only covering, wincing as he remembered the gauntlet of servants he'd have to run from the cottage to his bedroom—where spare clothing was located. Then he looked at her with foreboding. “You wouldn't.”

She lifted a gently inquisitive eyebrow as she stood in the doorway.

“You would,” he realized hollowly.

“Confess?” she invited in a gentle tone.

“I won't submit to blackmail!” he declared firmly.

“Fine.” She turned away. “See you at breakfast.” Then she threw one parting bit of advice over her shoulder. “Better come get it while it's hot.” And dashed from the cottage with Rory's curses tinting the morning air blue behind her.

It couldn't have worked out better for her;
Jake had decided to have breakfast on the veranda, and was sitting at the table with his morning paper when she hurried up the steps.

Handing the bundle of clothing to Conner, standing ever- ready behind Jake's chair, she said cheerfully, “Have these taken to Mr. Stewart's room, would you, please, Conner?”

“Yes, Miss Banner.” With no flicker of curiosity on his impassive face, the butler vanished into the house.

Jake frowned at her as she slid into her chair. “Where's Rory?” he asked.

“Oh, he'll be along.” Banner sipped her orange juice and smiled slowly. “If he can rig a toga for himself, that is.”

The green eyes so like her own began to gleam as Jake rather ostentatiously folded his paper and laid it aside. “A toga, is it? And why would he do that, lass?”

She meditatively chewed a bit of bacon. “Well, he could use a fig leaf, I suppose, if he could find one. But a toga would… cover more territory.”

Her grandfather was obviously biting the inside of his cheek to keep his mirth at bay. “I see. What've you've done, girl?” he demanded with a fine show of irascibility.

“I stole his clothes,” she explained solemnly.

Jake coughed rather hard, then bent a fierce stare on her. “Why?”

“He made me mad.”

“I warned him.” Jake shook his head sadly. “The name isn't Irish, but the blood is. I did warn him.”

“So he told me.”

“Just to give him a fighting chance, you understand,” her grandfather explained blandly.

“Oh, of course.”

The blue- tinted curses began to reach them faintly.

Jake listened for a moment, then said approvingly, “Hasn't repeated himself once.”

“He's half Southern, you know.”

“That'd explain it,” Jake agreed gravely.

“Ummm. I thought about having Conner line everybody up to see the show.”

Jake thought about that for a moment before giving his opinion. “No, that'd be a bit excessive, lass.”

“That's what I decided. No need to embarrass the poor man, after all.”

The curses were growing louder.

“Certainly not,” Jake affirmed solemnly.

Bare feet slapped the steps as Rory climbed them with a methodical tread. Banner and Jake gazed at him, both faces calm and detached, taking in the brilliant green sheet wrapping his lean form in a toga that demanded both the wearer's hands to remain in place.

“ ‘Morning, Rory,” Jake ventured carefully.

Rory came to a halt on the veranda, fulminating gray eyes shifting from one to the other of them as if seeking to fix the blame for his pre dicament on someone other than himself.

“Coffee, Rory?” Banner asked politely.

He took a deep breath and grabbed at a slipping bit of green linen. Then he glared at Jake. “Your granddaughter,” he said roundly, “is a vixen! A she- devil without scruples, manners,
morals, or an ounce of fair play in her devious little heart!”

“That's very good,” Jake noted consideringly.

“I object to the no- manners bit,” Banner said, elbow on the table and chin in hand as she stared thoughtfully at Rory. “I'll concede the rest, but I'm very well- mannered.”

“You're a little witch!”

“If I were a witch,” she told him sedately, “I wouldn't have left you the sheet.”

“Where're my clothes?” he demanded.

“In your room, of course.”

Jake shook his head mournfully at his guest. “I did warn you, my boy. Never get a Clairmont mad at you. Especially a Clairmont woman. Like to see my battle scars?”

Momentarily distracted, Rory stared at him. “Your wife wasn't a Clairmont, was she?”

“Not until I married her.” Jake smiled reminiscently. “But once she came here to live… And then there was my mother. And Sarah, Banner's mother. Banner herself, of course. I've got scars from all of ‘em, my boy. I wasn't kidding about
the need for armor—for all the good it does.” He stared at Rory. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

Rory absently clutched a slipping fold of the sheet, his gaze going to Banner. “Are you going to steal my clothes every time you get mad at me?” he wanted to know, somewhere between incredulity and bemusement.

She sipped her coffee. “Oh, no. I'll think of something else next time.”

Jake grinned suddenly. “My Elizabeth came up with some dandy ways of relieving her temper,” he said fondly. “Once, at a hotel, she threw all my clothes out a window while I was taking a shower. And another time, she hired two men to impersonate the police and arrest me in the middle of a dinner party.”

Rory stared at him. “Wouldn't it have been simpler to just have a good knockdown, drag-out fight?” he asked wryly.

Jake gave him a pitying look. “You'd better learn to understand Clairmont women better than that, my boy, if you mean to hitch your
wagon to one. They're ladies, you see. Never raise their voices or lose their smiles when they're mad. They just… get even.”