“I shouldn’t have done that,” Blythe said, feeling a twinge of remorse and even more concern over Julia’s promise of retribution.
“No, you really should not have,” Leigh agreed, her voice soft, but before Blythe could move out of the way, a wave of water swept over her, soaking her.
Julia’s laughter drifted across the bank, but before Blythe could even the score with her sister, Leigh had waded into the middle of the stream, where a deep pond had been formed by a natural dam, and disappeared into the water until just her head and arms showed. She sighed with the pleasure of the cool water surrounding her, a challenging glint in her eye as she met her sister’s speculative glance.
“Leigh! Whatever are you doing?” Julia exclaimed from the bank where she was hurriedly gathering her petticoats and trying to restore her maidenly modesty.
“You are going to outsmart yourself one of these days, Leigh Alexandra,” Blythe warned, for Leigh always seemed to be a step ahead of her—and the splash she had intended sending her sister’s way.
“Better I do it than you, little sister,” Leigh said, her smile widening into one of devilish satisfaction. “Umm, this feels wonderful. I was so hot and sticky. Why don’t you both come back in for a swim? Our underclothing will dry fast enough in this heat.”
“Not me!” Julia declared adamantly. “You really are behaving most improperly, Leigh—even if we are on Travers land and no one’s likely to see you, except your mama when you try to sneak back into the house, and dripping across her fine carpets. Well, I just hope you don’t get chilled and have to be confined to your bed on little Lucy’s birthday. And you’ll never untie your laces now,” Julia said, her voice muffled as she struggled into her petticoats. “They’ll be in knots.”
“They’ll dry,” Leigh said, drifting dreamily through the caressing waters, her eyes closed against the glare. “Besides, Jolie is the only one who can ever untie them anyway.”
Leigh opened her sleep-drowsy eyes and stared up at the deep blue sky that didn’t have a cloud in it.
Mrs. Matthew Wycliffe. The Mrs. Matthew Rutherford Wycliffe. Leigh Alexandra Wycliffe of Wycliffe Hall Charleston, South Carolina.
Leigh sighed, wishing it were Virginia rather than South Carolina. Of course, she’d always known that one day she would have to leave Travers Hill. Despite the sadness of that day, it would also be her wedding day, and Leigh’s lips parted with pleasure as the vision of Matthew Wycliffe as her husband-to-be floated before her. His black hair was thick and shiny, and his brown eyes were wide-spaced and thickly lashed, and bright with intelligence. He possessed a firm jaw, and his mouth was nicely proportioned, his teeth quite even. He had a fine-looking nose. He was taller than her father, and could sit a horse as well as any—even Guy. And, Matthew was a gentleman. He was everything a young lady—and a young lady’s family—could hope for in a suitor. When Matthew asked for her hand in marriage, her father would give his permission and she’d have her mother’s blessing. Yes, she would say yes when Matt asked her to marry…
“Leigh!” Julia’s voice called out. “You’re going to end up floating downriver into Richmond en déshabillé if you don’t wake up.”
“On disabeel? What’s that? Something like a barge?” Blythe questioned, staying well out of Julia’s reach.
Leigh kicked her feet and paddled back toward the bank, her arms moving in slow, deliberate strokes through the water. Her dreams of Matthew Wycliffe were temporarily forgotten as she stood up and walked toward the bank where Julia and Blythe were sitting in companionable silence. Julia was rubbing the creamy lotion over her arms and legs with a lavish hand while Blythe wove wildflowers and grasses into fragrant braided wreaths.
“Leigh!” Julia squealed. “You’re dripping all over us.”
“Sorry,” Leigh murmured, stopping by the bundle Jolie had prepared and pulling out a brush. Leigh dried her arms and shoulders with the skirt of her gown, then pulled the silk net and hairpins from the untidy chignon that was hanging lopsided against her nape. She began to brush the long strands free of tangles as she walked past Julia and Blythe, coming to stand on the edge of the meadow, her eyes searching for Damascena and Capitaine. The lazy pony was grazing peacefully beneath his tree and showed no signs of wandering off, and she suspected he might prove stubborn about being hitched up to the cart again.
Leigh whistled softly, but there was still no sign of her horses. She waited, brushing her long hair until it fell in a smooth, silken veil across one shoulder, the ends curling past her hip to midthigh. Her gaze wandered over the tranquil glade, lingering for a moment on the shadowy copse beyond the blackberry brambles, where she thought she saw a movement. She whistled again, expecting to see Damascena come racing from cover, but the copse remained undisturbed and silent.
Suddenly, from the opposite direction, Leigh heard the familiar hoofbeats and turned to see the mare and colt racing toward her. With a low laugh, she opened her arms to them.
In the cool shadows of the copse where Leigh thought she had seen a movement, a lone rider had sat watching the woodland nymphs. A slight smile of pleasure had softened his lean, sun-bronzed face as he gazed upon the romantic scene of three lovely young women bathing with seductive innocence in the cool waters of a gently murmuring stream.
The rider had watched them for some time, unwilling to disturb their idyll, or forfeit so rare a privilege of viewing the three beauties without their knowledge. He had come upon them in the act of disrobing, his keen eye not having missed the pails of blackberries in the cart. On so warm a summer’s day, and after so arduous a task, it had seemed only natural to wish to take a refreshing dip in the stream—which had been his intention when spying the stream from across the meadow. But he had put aside his own wishes and, with considerable patience and pleasure, had enjoyed their childish pranks in the stream, their ladylike decorum forgotten as they frolicked on a midsummer’s afternoon.
It was apparent by her actions that the fairest of the young women had aspirations of becoming a great lady. Affected and indolent, she was the perfect image of the pampered lady of the manor, her every wish or whim instantly gratified. He had laughed softly when the dark-haired one had placed the frog in her hand. The little dark-haired one, still more girl child than woman, seemed determined to cause mischief. He had noticed a defiance in her actions—as if she sensed this would be her last summer of innocence and was rebelling against leaving the carefree world of childhood.
The rider’s gaze narrowed as one of the young women stepped from the shade. She had been the one who had caught his interest the most. He was surprised that she held such a fascination for him. But there had been something so elusive about the way she moved, the water hardly rippling around her as she’d walked from the stream. There was a natural grace and beauty about her, nothing affected or calculated to attract. And her smile seemed to come as quickly as her laugh, even when seeing to the needs of her spoiled mistress, on whom she waited hand and foot.
As she stood there staring out at the meadow, she began to brush her long hair. The man felt a warm stirring in his loins as he watched the slow, rhythmic movements of the brush through the silky strands. How far more seductive a woman was when half-dressed, with the glory of her hair unbound, he thought, than when dressed in her finest silk gown, her hair confined in tight curls atop her head. And as he continued to watch her, he felt the strange enchantment of the moment and knew it would never be enough just to gaze upon this young woman’s beauty from afar. There was a warmth about her that drew him to her as surely as a moth to a flame, and he wanted to feel the sensual pleasure of touching her, to know the satisfaction of arousing her to a fiery passion that would match his own.
And yet she continued to stand before him, innocent of his desire while she revealed herself to him with a wanton’s disregard of the consequences. How many men had she tempted with her beauty? He couldn’t believe she could be so ingenuous. Some man would have lain with her by now, have made her his. The
man was startled by the sudden jab of jealousy that made him resent that unknown man, for he would have wished to have been the first man to have awakened her to passion—to feel the warmth of this woman in his arms, to have her hold him close to her heart. What would it feel like to possess her, to know her love, he wondered idly.
A shrill whistle pierced the silence, drawing him from his thoughts. He heard the hoofbeats before he saw the mare and colt. Strangely enough, he wasn’t surprised when the young woman opened her arms to them. Almost enviously, the man watched as the colt insinuated himself close to her, his velvety muzzle pressing against her warmth with the self-assurance of a beloved pet. Dropping the brush, she climbed on the mare’s back with incredible gracefulness, sitting astride, with no saddle for support or reins to control her mount. With a slight nudge of her bare heels, she sent the mare into an easy trot around the meadow, the colt galloping alongside.
The man had never seen so magnificent a sight. If he had believed the young woman beautiful before, she was bewitching now. With her hair hanging down to her hips, and the same rich chestnut shade as her horse, she rode as if one with the beast. Her thick, shining mane flowed over her shoulders as she rode, seeming to blend with the mare’s. Golden strands of hair, like captured sunlight, glistened in the heavy, silken tresses. The man’s breath caught when she suddenly stood up on the mare’s back, balancing with an ease he’d seldom seen.
As the young bareback rider drew closer across the meadow, he could see that she was small-boned and delicate-featured. The damp linen of her lacy pantalettes and chemise clung to her flesh, revealing it as truly as if bared naked to his searing gaze. Her shoulders were thrown back, arms outstretched for balance, and her breasts were high, their firm roundness pressed against the thin chemise. The nipples were hard, as if her breasts had been cupped in his hands and the soft peaks hardened into passion beneath his caress. Even with a corset laced tight, he could tell her waist would be tiny, and easily held captive between his hands as he brought the soft, womanly curves of her hip and belly against the hardness of his. The linen covering her buttocks molded their shape, enticing him and drawing his eye along the curving line of translucent material. Her thighs were slender and smoothly muscled from riding. He could see the gentle rippling of taut flesh and knew they would hold him tight, after having yielded and parted against the pressure of his own, their soft length wrapping around him and enfolding him as he took her to him. Her calves tapered down to small ankles and feet that were high-arched, the delicate curves destined for the touch of a man’s lips. His lips.
What would her lips, her kiss, taste like? To feel the silky softness of her hair tangled in his hands, and the heat of her flesh against his, branding him with her scent.
The rider’s smile suddenly became cynical at his own lustful thoughts. The warm expression in his eyes cooled into a glittering iciness as he wondered if she would be a warm, loving woman in his bed. Or would she become cold and unresponsive, suffering his touch because she was his wife and had a duty to perform, or was a whore who wanted to be paid for the evening’s pleasure she had sold him?
Could this woman be any different? Was her beauty true? The rider’s gloved hands tightened slightly on the reins of the big bay he rode as he continued to sit beneath the trees, enjoying the vision of loveliness despite the old doubts and disappointments warring within.
He had speculated on her relationship to the fair-haired miss, believing she might be her ladyship’s personal maid, but watching the way she rode, as if born to it, he wondered if she might not also be a groom’s or trainer’s daughter from one of the horse-breeding farms nearby. As the bareback rider circled the meadow, the dark-haired girl came to stand just beyond the shade. As the rider neared the tree, the dark-haired girl held out a wreath of flowers, which the bareback rider caught easily over her arm, twirling it as she rounded the meadow again. With a laugh that drifted to him on the warm, meadow-sweet breeze, she placed the flowery crown on her head—soft and fragrant, the flowers were far lovelier than a crown of the most priceless jewels.
One more time around, she came, and the man found himself gazing more closely at her face, trying to discover what color her eyes were, but they remained a mystery to him. If he had been close enough to see their color…
Regretfully, however, he watched as the spirited bareback rider halted the mare in front of the dark-haired girl, who had been viewing the acrobatic feats with cries of pleasure and encouragement. Dismounting, the beauty with the unbound hair patted the mare on its rump and sent it and the colt back out to graze. She accompanied the dark-haired girl to where the fair-haired one had almost managed to complete her toilette, except for hooking up the back of her elegant gown, the voluminous skirts threatening to consume everything in sight.
Sadly, he watched as the other two pulled on their petticoats and then their gowns, which, not surprisingly, were far less elegant than the fair-haired one’s. Soon, they had hooked themselves inside the concealing folds of linen and muslin and propriety, their carefree abandon seeming to disappear along with their tender flesh. For several minutes, they seemed to be searching for the remaining articles of their clothing, because the dark-haired girl, who had disappeared somewhere behind the cart, held up a slipper with a cry of triumph.
Suddenly a shrill cry of terror reverberated across the meadow. The man instinctively reached for the rifle at his knee. Pulling it from the holster and cocking it, he had already taken aim, ready to pull the trigger, when he suddenly began to laugh softly.
The fair-haired young woman’s screams had turned into shrill, angry words. Out of one of the baskets, a harmless garden snake had slithered across the quilt, causing the fair one’s initial fright. When the dark-haired girl, who was obviously far more stouthearted than the others, had captured the snake and held it up for their perusal, the fair one’s voice had become piercing with her objections.
He was surprised to hear the laughter of the other two, who seemed interested in taking a closer look at the snake, but the fair-haired one refused, preferring to maintain a safe distance.
The danger past, especially when the dark-haired one had freed the frightened snake, the rider uncocked the rifle and slid it back into the leather scabbard hanging from his saddle. Far too quickly, they had loaded the baskets into the cart and folded up the quilt. With the pony hitched to the cart, and the fair-haired one and the dark-haired one settled inside, they began to cross the meadow, the mare and colt walking docilely beside their mistress as she guided the pony with a gentle yet firm hand. The shadows were lengthening and the shafts of sunlight slanting down through the trees had deepened to a burnished gold as the afternoon fled.
The rider’s gaze never left the cart’s progress across the meadow—or the beautiful young woman walking barefoot through the tall grasses, her unbound hair fiery with the touch of the sun, and crowned by a wreath of wildflowers. In the afternoon light, she was warm and golden, and he longed to reach out and touch her and know that she was real.
Far too soon for his peace of mind, the little caravan disappeared into the trees on the far side of the meadow. Leaving the shadowy confines of the glade where he’d remained hidden from view, the rider, with a packhorse following on a lead behind, crossed the meadow—silent and empty now that the three young belles had left. Despite himself, the rider began to wonder if it had all been an illusion, especially as he reached the place where the vision of loveliness had stood brushing her hair.
“Thirsty, boy?” the rider asked softly, patting the big bay as they neared the stream that had first attracted him to this enchanted meadow.
Suddenly, the rider grinned, for his hawkish search of the area had rewarded him. Within arm’s reach, caught on a bramble bush was a single stocking, the finely spun silk of the palest shade of blue. Holding it to his face, he breathed deeply of the sweet scent of lavender and roses, careful not to snag the delicate material on the rough leather of his gloves.
Hers. She
was real, he thought, remembering her walking barefoot across the meadow. He stared down at the prize with as much pleasure as any conqueror of old would have when claiming the spoils of victory.
Dismounting, he walked beneath the canopy of branches, the bay following close behind. The rider moved quickly, and silently, his steps light as he crossed the bank where the three young women had waded into the stream. His gaze missed nothing of his surroundings: not the footprints in the muddied bank, the grass still matted down where the quilt had been spread beneath the tree, the wheel tracks from the cart, or on the far bank, the underbrush and trees that crowded close and would offer cover to someone.
Remaining on the bank for a moment longer, he stared down at the blue stocking he still held gently in his gloved hands. As if becoming aware of his own attire, and the dirt and sweat clinging to him, he eyed the cool waters that only a short while ago had lapped so sensuously around his vision’s hips.
“Come on, fellas, drink up,” the rider said, allowing his horses onto the bank.
Throwing the blue silk stocking over his shoulder, he began to unsaddle the bay, tossing his gear near the base of the tree, but keeping the rifle close at hand. The mounds of supplies followed, relieving the packhorse of his load as the rider allowed the two to graze on the tender, sweet grass of the meadow.
Spying several blackberries that had spilled from the pails, the man picked them up. They were sweet and juicy. The delicate scent of lavender reminded him of the stocking and he carefully folded it up and placed it in one of the canvas-covered bundles. Quickly shedding his clothes beneath the tree, he walked to the stream and waded into the cool waters.
The man began to feel the tired ache of his muscles fade as the water soothed his flesh. Lying on his back, he allowed himself to drift as he stared up at the blue sky, his thoughts on the young woman with the unbound chestnut hair, of her floating beside him, her soft body touching his as her lips came close…
When the Splendor Falls Page 8