When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

Facing south, the stables were light and airy, with a slightly sloping brick floor and the same green-shuttered windows that marked the big house and all of the outbuildings of Travers Hill. Bales of wheat straw were stacked at one end of the stables, next to a group of pitchforks, shovels, brooms, and dung skeps hanging on hooks high on the wall. A colorful array of woolen rugs and blankets were neatly folded and stored on a shelf near the saddles, bridles, and halters. Leigh inhaled with pleasure the strong, familiar smell of leather, well-worked with neat’s-foot oil and saddle soap, as she walked along the row of hayracks and mangers, the brick flooring still wet from having been washed down and cleaned of droppings. Every stall had a fresh bucket of water, and the horses’ feed—a mixture of bran and oats and molasses—was being spread into the mangers for the first feeding of the day.

  “Morning, Sweet John,” Leigh said as she came up to the stall where he was standing by Rambler, his hand gentle as he sponged the roan’s muzzle, his words coming soft and low as he spoke close to Rambler’s ear.

  “I was tellin’ Rambler here that Miss Leigh would be first down to see him. He’s real sweet on you, Miss Leigh. Think he only lets Mister Guy ride him so he can gallop alongside you an’ that sweet lil’ mare of yours,” Sweet John said, smiling when Rambler neighed in reply, seeming to nod his agreement with a playful shake of his head. “Now don’t you mess up yer mane, fella, I got it all brushed so you’ll look pretty fer Miss Leigh.”

  Tall and broad-shouldered, Sweet John was a handsome man, his skin the color of sweet chocolate—which was what Jolie had nicknamed him when he had been born and she had gazed down at him with such loving pride. She had declared that they’d call him John James, in honor of Jean Jacques and Colonel James Evelyn Leigh—but Sweet John he’d always been called and answered to since he’d taken his first steps. He had inherited some of Jolie’s Cherokee ancestry, evident in his high cheekbones and high-bridged nose, but she swore the straight-backed way he carried himself brought back more vivid, and frightening, memories of his grandfather Jean Jacques than of Creeping Fox.

  Leigh pressed a kiss against Rambler’s velvety cheek, scratching him behind the ears as she stared into his big brown eyes. “He’s a charmer, just like his unthinking master,” she said, wondering if Guy would ever learn to think before he acted. “How is the sprain?” she asked, glancing down at the roan’s foreleg.

  “Don’t think it’s goin’ to be too serious, Miss Leigh,” Sweet John told her, his sensitive hand caressing Rambler’s shoulder. “I put some kaolin paste on it, an’ in a couple of days I’ll wrap it up in cotton wool pads an’ lotion. But we’ll have to let him rest up a bit fer the next few days. Reckon Mister Guy’ll have to ride Maiden’s Blush fer a while. She’s a sweet one, but she’s not goin’ to do any jumpin’ of fences.”

  Leigh could smile now, but she’d felt the same anger she knew Sweet John had yesterday when they’d examined Rambler’s sprained tendon. “I think Guy might fare better with Pumpkin, especially if he tries to get him to jump that fence. He would teach Guy the error of his ways, and give him a painful nip for good measure,” Leigh predicted as she gently touched the roan’s foreleg. “It looks like some of the swelling has already gone down and there doesn’t seem to be too much heat in it. Not as much as last night.”

  “Yer mare an’ the lil’ cap’n are out in the paddock waitin’ fer you, Miss Leigh,” Sweet John said, anticipating her request. “I’ll get one of the grooms to ride with you.”

  “No, Sweet John, that’s not necessary, truly. I’m just riding down the road a piece. Not far. I’ll be back before anyone else is even out of bed.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Leigh,” Sweet John said, frowning slightly as he noticed the bundle of buckskin she’d been holding in her arms, but Leigh had already gotten halfway out the stable doors.

  Sweet John watched as she ran across the stableyard, her shrill whistle bringing the mare and colt galloping across the paddock to her side. He smiled when he saw them nudge her, then his smile widened as he saw the two shiny apples she held out to them. A moment later, she was balancing on the rail of the gate as it swung open, then she’d climbed on Damascena’s back and was riding across the far pasture, Capitaine racing ahead.

  Sweet John walked back into the stables, thinking Miss Leigh was like one of his fillies, and he couldn’t help but worry about her friskiness getting her into trouble. For a moment he stood with his dark head resting against Rambler’s flank, then he laughed softly when he felt the roan’s hot breath against his cheek, and whistling the same tuneless song Stephen was fond of, he continued with his task.

  Riding alone, Leigh reached the narrow path that meandered away from the lane within minutes—or so it seemed to her. She felt a strange sense of excitement—an excitement mixed with both dread and anticipation. And she found herself wondering if she really wanted to discover that the stranger had left. After having been awakened by the thunder just before dawn, she had lain awake, her thoughts filled with the stranger. Every time she had closed her eyes, he had been there before her, haunting her until she couldn’t escape the vision of seeing him rising from the water, his muscular body bared and golden.

  Lying in the dark and quiet of her bedchamber, safely tucked in the big four-poster with Blythe and Julia as bedmates, she had allowed herself to remember. Her heart had quickened its beat until she thought its pounding would awaken the other occupants of the bed, who were still lost in peaceful innocent slumber. But her thoughts were not innocent, Leigh remembered now with a wild blush staining her cheeks.

  She had remembered the stranger’s nakedness and remembered her own words to Julia, spoken so casually, about breeding. But it was different when she actually thought of the stranger in an encounter so intimate. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to be held in his arms, to be pressed against his naked chest, with his hands moving over her body and molding her closer. What would it feel like to be kissed by him?

  She remembered his features, hawkish and looking as if they’d been cast in bronze because of the darkness of his tanned face. Many would not have even considered him handsome, certainly not like Matthew Wycliffe, or even Guy, whose features were masculine, but delicately molded. The stranger’s nose was straight as a blade, and his cheekbones high and his jaw strongly curved. It was a hard face, with no softness, even in the finely chiseled lips. His hair was a dark golden shade even when wet, and he wore it longer than society would have deemed proper. She hadn’t been able to see the color of his eyes, narrowed against the glare and shadowed beneath the darkness of his lashes, but somehow she knew they would be pale, reflecting the sun as he gazed at the sky, or the flickering of candlelight at night. He had risen from the water, moving with a slow gracefulness that reminded her of a wild animal stalking its prey; each step deliberate and controlled.

  Leigh knew a feeling of growing dismay, not understanding the aching emptiness that suddenly filled her. She had never thought of Matthew Wycliffe this way, so why should she think such unladylike thoughts about the stranger? And especially a stranger who was no gentleman. If Jolie was right, then this stranger was little better than a savage. Why else would he dress in buckskins that bore a similarity to those worn by a wild heathen and carry around a small leather pouch filled with strangely barbaric, although prized, possessions.

  What was the fascination? she wondered, glancing down at the buckskins folded across her legs, touching them tentatively, then allowing her fingertips to linger against a spot of soft leather. With her heart pounding nervously, she jerked her hand away as if burned and rode through the woods. Some instinct urged caution, and she circled the meadow rather than cross the open space. Leaving Damascena near where she had left her the day before, Capitaine disappearing into the trees, Leigh hurried through the sun-dappled shadows bordering the meadow, watching for any sign of the stranger. No white-tailed deer bolted from cover as Leigh neared the blackberry brambles where she’d hidden from the stranger yesterday.
Overhead, she could hear the low cooing of wood pigeons, undisturbed by her trespass. In the distance, the gentle murmuring of the creek beckoned her into the grove of hemlock as she moved ever closer to the tall sycamore, beneath which she had stolen the stranger’s clothes.

  It was strangely cool in the shade beneath the tree, and Leigh shivered slightly as she glanced around, but the glade and the grassy bank, even the pool, was empty. The stranger was gone. Without regret, or so she tried to convince herself, she carefully placed the clean buckskins on the ground. Lifting up her skirt and petticoat, she untied the leather pouch from around her waist and placed it on top of the neatly folded clothes. Feeling a sense of relief now that they were no longer in her possession, Leigh turned around and started back toward the meadow, where the sun was shining so brightly and warmly.

  She hadn’t quite reached the tall grasses when her step faltered and she felt as if she were being watched. Licking her dry lips, Leigh quickened her step, but Damascena, grazing beneath the trees, suddenly seemed so far away. If she crossed the meadow, it would be quicker, but she would reveal herself to anyone watching.

  Leigh shook her head in disgust. She was being fanciful. There was no one here. The shrill cry of a bird sounded close by, startling her, but nothing more. The stranger had left, apparently not too distraught about having lost his clothes and the leather pouch—despite Jolie’s fears to the contrary. Or, perhaps he was searching for the thief elsewhere, but at least she had accomplished what she had set out to do and had returned the stranger’s clothing. Her conscience was clear and she hoped she never saw the stranger again—or his troublesome buckskins.

  Leigh was congratulating herself as she hurried across the meadow, when she sensed the shadow before she actually saw it swooping toward her out of the sun. Her eyes momentarily blinded, she raised her hand to shield them so she could see, and that was when she saw the stranger standing before her, blocking her path.

  Instinct again prompted her to flight, but wrongly so this time, for there was no chance of escape, and before she had taken more than a step or two she felt the stranger’s hands clamp down hard on her shoulders.

  “So, you are the thief who stole my clothes,” Neil Braedon murmured softly, more pleased than he could possibly have believed by the discovery of the thief’s identity.

  Like the hawk overhead, be quiet and watchful, waiting for the moment to strike, the Comanche warrior Hungry-As-The-Stalking-Wolf had told him day after day when they had hunted the desolate canyons and the high slopes of sparsely wooded timberland. And now his patience had been rewarded. He had camped by the pool last night, contenting himself with a cold meal of dried beef, waiting for either the return of the thief—looking for more valuables—or for dawn when he would search the nearby farms, and if unsuccessful in his attempt to regain his possessions, then he would seek assistance from his uncle and cousins at Royal Bay in tracking down the thief. But his satisfaction when hearing the approaching hoofbeats had turned to surprise when the identity of the thief had been revealed to him, and then the puzzlement had become pleasure as he’d watched the fair creature of the day before carefully replacing his buckskins, and the pouch, back by the pool.

  “Let me go! It was a mistake. Please believe me,” Leigh entreated, less pleased than she could ever have believed now that she knew the stranger had not left. Meeting him in the flesh was not nearly as enjoyable as in her daydreams, she discovered, trying to free her shoulders from his painful grasp.

  “A mistake?” he asked doubtfully, enjoying her ineffective struggles to free herself, for he had waited for this moment of confrontation during a very long night.

  “Yes!” Leigh answered emphatically, looking up into his eyes for the first time, then wishing she hadn’t. She suddenly found herself forgetting what she was going to say, for they were as pale as she’d imagined them. “Yes,” she repeated, “I thought you were someone else.”

  He laughed, and it was a deep warm laugh. “Someone else? Am I to understand that it is your usual practice to go around stealing a man’s clothes? What happened to the famed Virginian hospitality? Had I not had the good fortune of having other clothing, I could very well have caught my death of cold during the storm.”

  “It was very warm last night, hot even, and there was only thunder, no rain,” Leigh corrected him, unwilling to be blamed for something that wasn’t true. “Please, let me go. I am sorry about what happened.”

  “I suppose you are only sorry because I happened to be the wrong man?”

  “No, no, you continue to misunderstand me, and this is all so unnecessary. I mistook you for someone else. Someone who deserved to have his clothes stolen.”

  “Not very hospitable at all,” he said, thoroughly enjoying himself—both the girl and his possessions were within his grasp.

  “I thought you were Adam Braedon, but you aren’t,” Leigh explained reasonably, refusing to give in to her panic, and not seeing the flash of recognition, and amusement, that entered his eyes when she mentioned his cousin’s name. “If you knew Adam Braedon then you would understand completely and not hold me responsible.”

  “Oh, but I do know the gentleman in question, and I do hold you completely responsible. And I intend to hold you accountable for your actions.”

  “I didn’t steal your buckskins, and I did wash them before I returned them, which you should thank me for. And I returned that pouch, which Jolie says is very important to you, and with everything intact, so you should indeed be grateful, and if I hadn’t been so startled when you turned around in the pool and I saw that you weren’t Adam—”

  “You saw me bathing?” he asked, momentarily startled, his gaze penetrating as it moved intently over her blushing face.

  Leigh felt her cheeks burning scarlet under his appraising glance, and realized that trying to explain was getting her into worse trouble.

  “I was so startled,” she repeated, “that I forgot I had your buckskins. It really is your fault, for you are trespassing on Travers land. And besides, I turned away before you left the water,” Leigh lied, her voice muffled as she stared down at his shirt front, realizing for the first time that he was dressed quite fashionably in fawn-colored breeches and riding boots, the oxblood leather having been buffed to a high sheen. His pleated shirt front was neatly pressed and startlingly white against his tanned throat.

  “How fortunate for you, and how very fortunate for Adam that you mistook me for him,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon, but this has nothing to do with you. I’ve said I am sorry and I demand that you release me this instant,” Leigh told him, her voice cool.

  “Oh, but it has everything to do with me, since I am the injured party. I could bring charges against you for theft. Good Lord, what a scandal that would cause in the county,” he mused, the fine lines fanning out around his eyes crinkling when he smiled.

  “Oh, no, please. You mustn’t,” Leigh pleaded, thinking of the uproar at Travers Hill should her mother and father hear any breath of scandal about this unfortunate meeting. “I have returned your buckskins. No real harm has been done. What more do you want?”

  Neil stared down into her heart-shaped face, the slight smile curving his hard mouth widening. “Blue, a dark, deep blue,” he murmured, staring into her eyes. Like the night sky just before dawn, he thought, noting how thick her gold-tipped brown lashes were and how they kept fluttering down and shielding her eyes from his. He breathed the same lovely fragrance of lavender and roses that had scented her silk stocking, and the sweet perfume of lilac rose on the heat from her body, but as he leaned closer to her, there was another aroma that tantalized him.

  He laughed aloud, startling Leigh from her absorption with the dark gold wave of hair that had fallen across his wide brow.

  “Lavender and roses, lilac, and maple syrup. A heady combination for a man who has spent over a month on the trail,” he said, his gaze lingering on her slightly parted lips. They were beautiful lips, delicately proportioned,
not too wide, but generous as they curved upward at the corners, and with an underlip full and soft.

  “So, you and Adam are friends? He has always had good taste, but I believe he has outdone himself this time,” he remarked, his hand sliding from her shoulder to capture the long mane of chestnut hair. It was like silk shot with golden threads as he allowed his hand to become tangled in the long strands, something he had wanted to do since first seeing her.

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Leigh demanded in growing concern as she felt the stranger’s hand against the softness of her breast as he gathered her hair in his hand as if he’d every right to do so, claiming the blue ribbon as his prize. Except for the womenfolk of her family, only her father and Guy had ever tugged playfully on her long hair.

  “You are Adam Braedon’s lady friend, aren’t you?”

  “What?” Leigh demanded, outraged, and her tone damned such a suggestion.

  “You are not his lady friend?” he asked.

  “Of course not!”

  “Good, that eases my conscience somewhat, although we are blood brothers and therefore must share and share alike. What is his, is mine, and I feel very much like claiming that right. And you do owe me something for the inconvenience you caused by stealing my clothing and something that is very precious to me.”

  Leigh drew herself up as proudly as she could beneath his hands. “I do not have any money with me now, but I will see that you are paid in full for the inconvenience caused by my actions.”

  “That isn’t exactly the kind of payment I had in mind,” the stranger replied quietly. “Even if Adam were your lover, I don’t think he would resent my stealing one innocent kiss,” he said, and before Leigh knew what he was about, his mouth had found hers.

  Leigh remained stiff in his arms, her lips closed and unresponsive against his.

  When the stranger released her lips, he was frowning. He was standing so close, his head and shoulders bent down to her, that she could see the golden stubble of beard covering the firm angle of his jaw and the leanness of his cheeks. His golden lashes were thick and long—too long, in fact, for a man, Leigh thought almost resentfully.