Rebel Waltz (6 page)

“Banner, I saw the man as clearly as I saw you.” He stared at her. “Are you putting me on?”

“No.”

“Ghosts?”

“Ghosts. Don't worry,” she added encouragingly. “You'll get used to them. They're very nice ghosts.”

“I can't deal with this,” Rory said definitely.

She giggled. “Sorry. I suppose it's true that we
Americans aren't as blasé about ghosts as the Europeans, because we haven't had as much history to produce them. But there's a lot of history in Jasmine Hall, and family feeling has always been very strong here.”

Rory smiled wryly, not quite believing but not sure enough to disbelieve, either. “The blond man?”

“According to legend, he guards—as ridiculous as it sounds—the young ladies of the house.”

“And you've never seen him?”

“No. That's part of the legend too. After you saw him yesterday, I looked it up, because I only half- remembered that story.”

“Looked it up?”

“In the Jasmine Hall book. A Clairmont with literary talents wrote everything up and had it privately printed, ghosts and all.”

“I'd like to read it.”

Banner nodded agreeably. “I'll get it for you later. I was looking through it last night when you came into the library.”

- 73 -

Rory thought of the night before, and of the book that had not long remained on the mantel, where he'd left it. He decided, somewhat uncomfortably, not to mention that to Banner.

“Have you had breakfast?” she was asking prosaically.

“No, how about you?”

“Not yet. Shall we?” She rose from the bench.

Following suit, Rory suddenly remembered something. “Oh, by the way—I don't mean to complain, but could we do something about the scent of jasmine in my room? It must be air freshener, or something; I couldn't find anything else. I wouldn't mind, but I seem to have a slight allergy and woke up sneezing this morning.”

Banner was staring at him. “Jasmine?” she said in an odd voice.

“Yes.” He looked at her curiously, wondering.

She turned rather abruptly and headed across the garden toward the house. “Of course. I'll— see what we can do.”

She was laughing inside, but decided sympathetically not to heap yet another ghost on
Rory's bewildered head. Because she was reasonably sure that the scent he spoke of wasn't a product of this world, but another one.

Her mother had loved jasmine, and had worn the scent always.

F
ROM THE VANTAGE
point of the back of a tall gray Thoroughbred, Rory watched riders assembling for the hunt. As Banner had predicted, most of the guests had seemed a bit sheepish at breakfast, but they were back on balance now, and the Grand Old South was once more at the forefront of things.

Currier and Ives would have loved the scene.

Yelping beagles wandered restlessly among the horses, never too far away from the redheaded
middle-aged man Banner had introduced as Scottie; he was clearly adored by all the animals. Ladies in colorful riding habits coped easily with troublesome sidesaddles and spirited horses. Gentlemen talked and laughed.

In the background were the barns, three long ones surrounding an open area where the horses and riders were milling about. The stabling was adequate, Rory thought musingly, for all the horses—those belonging to Jasmine Hall and those sent here days ago by the guests who wanted to ride their own. Rory's experienced eye detected pure- blooded, expensive Thoroughbreds comprising those animals sporting the red brow-band on their bridles that proclaimed them as belonging to the Hall. His own gray gelding was as sleek and well trained as any he'd seen in major show-rings.

Then his attention was caught once more by the spectacle of Jasmine Hall turned out for the hunt.

“Amazing, isn't it?” Banner had ridden her black gelding up beside Rory and now controlled
his prancing with an experienced hand. “You'd think somebody had turned back the clock.”

“You'd think,” he agreed, glancing once more at the scene around them and then gazing at her. “How d'you manage the sidesaddle?”

She laughed. “It's easy once you've learned how. Balance is everything.”

“I can imagine. Does that brute realize he's carrying a lady?”

Banner frowned at him and bent forward to stroke the glossy black neck of her mount. “Don't call El Cid a brute. I raised him and trained him myself.”

Rory watched the huge horse prance in place as though he were performing for judges in a dressage event, noting that Banner seemed as comfortable as she would have been on solid ground. “El Cid? He was a Spanish national hero, wasn't he?”

“Uh-huh. But it's the literal meaning of the name that I love—‘the lord.’ Fits, doesn't it?”

“He is lordly,” Rory admitted. “And what's mine called?”

Banner smiled serenely at him. “Shadow.”

He looked at her suspiciously, but Banner maintained an innocent expression. Rory sighed. “Right. I really don't know if I want to hear the answer, but—will any of the Hall… uh, spirits ride today?”

“I've never seen any,” she responded gravely.

“That doesn't comfort me.”

Banner laughed suddenly. “If you see one, just tip your hat in passing.”

“You should ask one of ‘em to sit for you,” he told her firmly. “I doubt that any other artist has captured a ghost—from the flesh, so to speak.”

Before she could respond, Scottie signaled the beginning of the hunt, his long horn echoing in the morning air. The dogs moved toward the meadow, casting about for the scent, and almost instantly gave tongue in their loud, eerily plaintive voices.

The hunt was on.

Rory had ridden all his life, and he was familiar
with steeplechase-type courses made hazardous by wicked jumps and a fast and constant pace, but he had never experienced an honest-to-goodness hunt.

His respect for these apparently leisurely ladies and gentlemen increased enormously as the morning wore on. They handled their mounts easily, and all rode with the certain comfort of those almost literally born in the saddle. Not a single guest was unseated—and the jumps were wicked.

Banner and Jake, Rory noticed, kept right in the thick of things. It was those two, she on her El Cid and her grandfather on a deep-chested, long-legged white gelding, who showed their guests the way over brush, rail, and water. It might have been an amiable competition between them or merely the hard- riding nature of their heritage; whatever the reason, they were nearly always neck-and-neck in the lead.

The false trail led them for miles over the countryside, across streams and meadows and
through forests, and it wasn't until they had experienced the “kill” and watched the hounds leashed at the base of a large tree where a stuffed fox glared mockingly down on them that Rory was able to come up alongside Banner. All the riders had turned their mounts back toward Jasmine Hall at a leisurely pace.

“That,” Rory said definitely, “was something to remember.”

Cheeks flushed and green eyes merry, Banner nodded agreement. “There are hunt clubs around here that run hunts from time to time, but we're the only ones who're costumed. It adds something, doesn't it?”

“It does that.” He looked over their horses, noting the damp sheen of sweat but also aware that neither animal—clearly well conditioned— was overly tired. “Do we have time to ride over more of the property, or should you return with your guests?”

Abruptly, the light left her eyes. “No, I don't have to get back right away. I can show you the southern section, at least. This way.” She turned
El Cid away from the rest of the horses, heading in a direction the hunt hadn't covered.

Rory was silently cursing himself. He brought Shadow alongside her horse again. “Banner, I'm sorry.”

She sent him a quick glance. “It's all right; Jake can take care of the guests.”

“That isn't what I meant, and you know it.” He sighed. “You were so happy about the hunt, and I had to spoil your pleasure by reminding you that I came here to look the place over. I'm sorry.”

The horses were walking, and Banner had little need to pay close attention to her riding; still, she didn't look at him. “Well, it's the reason you're here. And… Jake's serious this time.” She smiled faintly. “It probably isn't good salesmanship—by Jake's way of thinking—to tell you that, but it's true.”

He was silent for a moment. “D'you have to sell?” It was, perhaps, spiking his own guns, since he wanted the place, but Rory was troubled by her obvious grief at losing Jasmine Hall.

Banner shrugged. “We can't afford to keep it in prime condition; you know what restoration and maintenance cost these days. It's either turn the place over to a historical society or sell.”

“And it'll kill you to have to leave here.” It wasn't a question, and the rough tone told her more, perhaps, than he'd intended.

She stared straight ahead between Cid's alert ears. “I'll survive.”

There was silence for a while, broken only by morning sounds and the muffled thuds of hooves. Rory saw the land they rode through, but he didn't really look at it. He was peculiarly conscious of the costume he wore and of the costumed lady by his side, bemusedly aware that while his instincts might have sparked action because they were alone, the manners curiously imposed by the costumes forbade it.

He would, he realized, be glad when the costumes were packed away for—what? Next year? Or would there be a next year for this hunt?

Shunting the thought aside, he asked abruptly, “Is Jake your only family?”

“He is now. My father was killed in a car accident when I was just a child. Mother died ten years ago. There are aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered around the country, but it's just been Jake and me for years.”

“What are your future plans if the Hall is sold?” He hated to keep reminding her, but he was more than a little interested in anything that had to do with Banner's future.

She sent him a sudden look that was surprise overlaid by sadness. “It's funny, but I haven't thought that far ahead. I doubt that Jake has either. We were both born here; there's always been the Hall for us.” Then she shrugged, and her voice lightened with a clear effort. “I suppose we'll buy a small place somewhere with a bit of land; neither of us could bear living in a city or even in an apartment. But that isn't your problem, Rory,” she finished firmly.

“Isn't it?” He stared straight ahead, suddenly angry about the entire situation. He wanted the Hall, but not at the price of depriving Banner and Jake of a much-loved home; and knowing
that they had no choice but to sell to someone helped not one bit. He was angry because the costumed ball and hunt would inevitably become nothing more than a sliver of local history; the tightly-knit neighborhood here would hardly care to see the Hall family tradition turned into little more than an interesting game for tourists-guests. He was angry because, for the first time, a piece of property seemed like a home to him rather than a money- making proposition, and the thought of careless tourists tramping through its gracious halls actually sickened him. And he was angry because he very badly wanted to become a part of Banner's life—and the Hall loomed between them. If he bought the plantation, would he always be the man who'd taken away her home, however gently he managed the transaction? Even if he kept the place for his own home—an idea that appealed strongly to him, however impractical it might be—it would no longer belong to Banner's family. And if he decided not to buy, it would only force Jake either to offer it to someone else,
someone with no scruples or interest in the family, or to turn it over to a historical society.

It was a no-win situation.

Banner knew that he was angry; the emotion was obvious from his grim expression and troubled eyes. And because she was slowly getting to know this man, she understood the source of his anger. His feeling for these old plantations and his deepening interest in this particular family held him trapped in an unenviable position. He wasn't the type of man to walk away from the problem, to disassociate himself from the future of Jasmine Hall just so that he wouldn't be responsible for whatever happened.

Quietly, she said, “You want the Hall. You don't have to see the rest of the property, do you?”

Rory sighed, and his voice was rough when he answered. “I want the Hall. But I don't want anything to change. Not for the Hall—and not for you and Jake. I want there to be a ball and a hunt every year, where the neighbors revert and celebrate the glory of the Grand Old South. I
want to watch Southern gents threatening to duel in the garden and I want to listen to debates on the presidency of Mr. Lincoln. I want to know that there's still a traditional midnight waltz at Jasmine Hall.”

Banner swallowed hard, almost unbearably moved by the muted passion in his deep voice. He was not giving lip service to what he thought she wanted to hear; he felt the same aching love for this very special home of hers that she did. It came to her then that only a special man with deep sensitivity could have become so very involved so quickly.

For the first time, she wanted him to have the Hall. He would take care of her home if she couldn't do it herself.

She wasn't aware that the horses had responded to tense hands on their reins by halting, until she looked around. They were standing at the edge of a clearing in the woods where a small brook murmured softly to itself in the shaded quiet. Banner forced herself to ignore her tight throat and to speak briskly.

“Then you'll buy the place, of course. Unless Jake's price is totally outrageous. You'll buy the place,” she repeated softly, trying to accustom herself to the sound of that. “Change is a part of life, Rory; you aren't responsible for the fact that Jake's and my lives have to change.”

“Am I not?” His voice was grim. “Then how will you feel, Banner, after I've taken your home away from you? How will you feel about me?”

Banner signaled El Cid to move forward, and as the horse responded obediently, she tried to answer him. “I don't know. But I'm not a child, Rory; I know someone has to buy the Hall. I'd— rather it was you. And… that's all.”

He guided his horse to follow as she turned back toward the house, realizing that she'd given him the only answer she could at this point. But he knew, with a sinking feeling, what her eventual answer would be. Jasmine Hall was not a house, and not merely a home; it was a part of Banner. And no matter how gracious this innately Southern lady would be over the loss of that, it would never be forgotten.