When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  “Seems like old times,” he murmured, enjoying the feel of her slender body against his. “You’re my favorite maid to tumble in the hay.”

  Unable to pretend indignation where there was none, especially toward the husband who had just saved her from a nasty fall, a half smile curved Leigh’s lips. “Odd, I should always associate the smell of a barn with you,” she said innocently as she unlocked her arms from around his neck and placed them rather delicately against his shoulders, avoiding the patch of wiry golden hair covering his chest.

  Neil’s chest shook beneath her as he laughed, then she felt herself lifted high as he drew a deep, contented breath into his lungs, as if prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon lying in the hayloft, his arm heavy around her waist as he kept her where she was on top of him.

  “Did I forget to mention that I approve of your riding habit. Although rather different in style, I find it quite attractive,” he said, thinking of her long-legged graceful walk as she’d crossed the grounds in leather boots, short calf-length skirt split to form full-legged breeches, and a wide-brimmed hat tipped at a rakish angle, her long braid of hair moving sinuously with each step. He hadn’t had a chance to see her properly the night she and Gil had returned late to Royal Rivers. But the first time she’d come sauntering across the grounds in her outfit, he’d stopped work and just stood and stared, along with every other man who’d caught a glance of her. He’d been aware of the admiring, lustful faces and known that had he not been standing there among them—and known to them as her husband—they would have been very vulgarly vocal in their masculine approval. Although perhaps not, Neil speculated, for the vaqueros were completely loyal and devoted to Leigh, and had anyone said anything ungentlemanly about her, they might as well have insulted the proud blood of the vaquero himself and prepared to defend his life. The vaquero would have been quick to defend his and Leigh’s honor with the flashing blade of a stiletto. At first, that almost blind loyalty had raised his ire, until he’d realized that they respected her as a lady and even more as a horsewoman.

  As it was, he’d received countless envious glances, some assessing, some speculative, some daydreaming, from the shearers, but when Leigh had ridden past astride Capitaine, handling the high-spirited stallion with ease, some of the glances had turned to pity as they’d shaken their heads—for it was one thing to dream about a beautiful woman, and quite another to be married to a headstrong one, no matter how beautiful she was.

  “Do you ride Capitaine astride all of the time?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “I don’t know why I should be surprised, since I first saw you riding bareback in your wet chemise and lacy drawers,” he reminded her.

  “Then you don’t mind that your wife’s behavior would be considered very unladylike back in Virginia?” Leigh asked curiously.

  Neil grinned. “We’re not in Virginia, and there is a time and place for ladylike airs, which you have in abundance, my dear, but there is also a time for a lady to show some practicality, which you have. I’d rather have you causing a scandal than breaking your lovely neck,” he drawled, his hand lightly clasping the slender column, his words echoing Leigh’s to Jolie when she’d complained about her appearance.

  Leigh sighed in relief, then she sniffed with ladylike disdain, causing Neil to laugh deeply as he realized his bare chest was sweaty and the odor of sheep clung to him like a second skin, and apparently to Leigh also, because she touched the linen of her blouse curiously. It was slightly dampened from the sweat coating his broad chest and the material was now sticking to her flesh.

  “Forgive me, ma’am, but I hadn’t planned on rescuing a fair damsel in distress, or I would certainly have put back on my shirt.”

  “Just returning the compliment,” Leigh said mockingly, remembering his odious expression when she and Gil had returned to Royal Rivers with the lamb.

  “That is what I like about you, Leigh, I can always expect you to even the score,” he said, his pale eyes no longer cold, but glowing warmly with humor.

  “Thank you. I do try,” she said. “You don’t suppose there is a pitchfork lying around here anywhere?”

  Neil grinned with remembrance of their first roll in the hay, his hand moving slightly, almost caressingly, over her lower back.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” Leigh suddenly said nervously.

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t mind, do you, that I’m riding Capitaine. I don’t always ride him, sometimes I ride my mare, but when I leave the rancho, I—”

  “He is your horse. He has always been your horse.”

  Leigh met his pale eyes for a long moment, noticing for the first time in a long time the little flecks of gold in the crystalline depths. “Mine?”

  “Yes. I took him from you under circumstances I am not proud of. He is yours, Leigh. He has never belonged to anyone else.”

  Leigh closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I’m glad your little mare made it. I hardly recognized her in the stables. She looks quite different from the broken-down horse I saw at Travers Hill.”

  Leigh smiled. “She’s showing her bloodlines,” she said, thankful that Damascena now bore few of the scars of her ordeal.

  “Aunt Leigh! Aunt Leigh? Are you all right?” Noelle’s pitiful voice drifted up to them.

  “Yes, dear. I’m fine. I’ll be right there,” she called back. “We’d better go,” she suggested to Neil, glancing down at him.

  “You haven’t thanked me yet for saving you,” he said, pulling gently on the long braid of chestnut hair. “You know by now I’m a man who always demands payment for services rendered, or for debts owed me,” he said, raising his mouth slowly to hers, giving her time to draw back if she wished.

  Leigh slowly lowered her mouth to his, meeting him halfway.

  Their lips touched. Softly. Almost tentatively, as if it were their first kiss. His hand slid up the long braid to cup the back of her neck, his fingers caressing the fine, silky hairs as he gradually increased the pressure, bringing their mouths closer together, parting them. His arm left her waist, his hand moving along her hip, then coming to rest on her buttocks, where he lightly fondled the soft curves beneath the leather of her skirt.

  Still holding herself slightly away, Leigh now moved her hand to touch his cheek, allowing the swell of her breasts to come in contact with his bare chest. She felt him shudder beneath her, his hand leaving the nape of her neck to find the buttons of her blouse. His tongue lightly touched her lips, licking them, his teeth nibbling against the soft inner flesh, and she opened them wider, allowing him to touch her tongue, the kiss deepening as his tongue slid against hers, joining them together with the intimate contact.

  “Aunt Leigh!” the plaintive voice sounded again. “Gil’s bringing some people toward the barn. It’s that Spanish woman and her brother, lil’ Louie Angel,” Noelle said, quoting her mother and uncle in both words and tone. “And that other man’s with them. I don’t like him, Aunt Leigh. He’s always winking at me and tickling me beneath the chin. And his breath always smells like whiskey, but without the mint in it,” she said, remembering the mint juleps of home. “Please come down,” Noelle called out again.

  Leigh lifted her head, breaking the intimate contact and a button off her blouse as she pulled free of Neil’s hands and struggled to her feet, trying to button up the rest of her blouse and smooth her skirt as she walked carefully toward the ladder, her hips swaying as she tried to keep from slipping.

  Neil closed his eyes for a frustrated moment, then got to his feet, his hand grasping her elbow firmly as he guided her the rest of the way. Their eyes met once, before Leigh glanced away in confusion, her fingers fumbling with one of the tiny pearl buttons, and Neil thought better of handing her the one he’d accidentally pulled off.

  “Do you know, Leigh, I’ve always thought you had a very nice derriere,” he said conversationally.

  Leigh looked startled for a moment, then reluctantly, as if she wer
e trying not to smile, her mouth started to curl at the corners.

  “What?” he asked, uncannily able to read her thoughts.

  He was caught off guard, however, when she eyed him up and down and said in the same conversational tone of voice, “And I’ve always thought the same about you.”

  She was glad they’d reached the ladder, for even though he was still laughing, the look in his eye warned her he would not let her comment go unchallenged.

  “I’ll go down first,” he told her, easily stepping over the edge and onto the top rung, then down a couple of steps. He waited there for her to sit down and swing her legs over the edge, his hand guiding her as she turned and found her footing. Leigh felt his hand resting lightly against her hip until she’d gotten a little over halfway down, then, already standing on the ground, he caught her around the waist and swung her down the rest of the way.

  “Thank you,” Leigh said politely, her haughty tone not intentional, but it sounded to Neil as if she were thanking a footman.

  Neil smiled crookedly. “You’ve got straw in your hair, m’lady, and you’re missing a button,” he said, reaching out and touching the pale flesh revealed by the gaping pieces of linen as Gil, still in his leather apron, entered the barn, followed by Diosa, Luis, and Courtney Boyce.

  “Neil!” Diosa cried out in genuine pleasure, lifting her skirts to run to him, ignoring Leigh as she brushed past her. Throwing herself into Neil’s arms, Diosa rested her cheek against his bare chest, her hands spread against his shoulders, as if feeling him to make certain he was truly there, before her arms slid around his neck and, standing on tiptoe, she pressed her mouth to his.

  Breathlessly, Leigh—and Gil, who was staring at Diosa in slack-jawed disbelief—waited for Neil’s reaction, but before he could do anything, Diosa had stepped back, glancing around with a fine show of flustered embarrassment, but Leigh would have sworn her lips were tight with anger.

  “Please, forgive me,” Diosa begged, gazing up into Neil’s sun-bronzed face, her black eyes full of tears, “in my excitement I forgot propriety.”

  And his wife, Leigh thought.

  “But my prayers have been answered now that Neil is back from that horrible war. If only he had never gone in the first place. Such a tragedy. Everything would be so different, sí?” she asked, not speaking of the tragedy that had befallen the North and South, but the tragedy in her own life—for Neil had returned from the war a married man. “Oh, but I am in despair that I was not in Santa Fe when you returned. I heard you were there,” she said, meeting Leigh’s eyes with a meaningful glance. “After such a long journey, how disappointing for you to discover that I had traveled to Mexico City and was not here to greet you. After all of this time, such a long separation, between friends, for we have always been such dear friends. I should have been here to welcome you home, querido.” She added the endearment in a low voice, her eyes drawn back to Neil’s face, and seeming to burn through him.

  Leigh was staring at Neil too, but her gaze was icy. So, he had been to Santa Fe to see Diosa, she thought unhappily, realizing what a fool she’d been just minutes ago.

  “One usually travels through Santa Fe coming from the east, or the south,” he murmured, his eyes resting on Leigh’s face for a moment. “Remember, Leigh, the trail you followed across the plains ended at Santa Fe.”

  Leigh nodded, wanting to believe him, for if he had been in Santa Fe the day he arrived at Royal Rivers, then he would have learned of Diosa’s absence then, and not disappeared the very next day in order to see her, Leigh realized, her blue eyes warming a degree and Neil’s mouth twitched slightly at the corner as if he had followed her train of thought to its logical, and favorable, conclusion.

  But Diosa was fuming as she glared at Leigh Braedon, not having missed anything about her disheveled appearance; not the straw in her hair, not the button gone from her blouse, nor the telltale dampness that caused the linen to cling to her breasts and outline them most seductively. But her fury came from the scent of jessamine and lavender that clung to Neil’s bare chest, the fragrance of which she had caught a whiff when pressing her cheek against his skin, as if he and this wife of his had been embracing, Diosa thought, snapping the quirt she carried against her knee as if barely able to keep from striking out at the other woman.

  “Neil! It is good you are back at Royal Rivers, and apparently in good health,” Luis said suddenly, perhaps having sensed his volatile sister’s furious state of mind, and he held out his hand, his arm stretched between the two women. Neil took the hand offered to him, for he’d always found Luis a likable fellow.

  “How are you, Luis?” he said, but his grip was perhaps too firm, because Luis grimaced slightly.

  “Until now, quite well, thank you, Neil,” he said with a wide grin, bearing his momentary discomfiture well, for Luis Angel Cristobal de la Cruz Martinez Sandovares de Jaramijos was a gentleman, from the top of his low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat trimmed in silver, to his high-heeled Spanish boots of cordovan leather. And like Diosa, he was very proud of his pure Castilian blood—blood of the conquistadores. Dressed in his customary black trousers and short jacket, with a ruffled shirt front, he was quite an elegant figure, although the boots allowed him more height than he actually possessed, but his aristocratic profile would have been envied by many a Spanish grandee, as would his faultless manners, which was where he and his sister differed, for Luis was soft-spoken and very genteel. “Ah, Leigh, a pleasure to see you again,” he said, bending over her hand.

  “Luis.”

  “But you have not met our friend and business associate,” he said, sounding very upset at his unintended slight as he gestured to the stranger, as if about to introduce him.

  “Oh, how remiss of me,” Diosa said first, sidling up to the man, her gloved hands entwining around his arm. “Neil Braedon, my dearest Courtney Boyce,” she introduced him in a soft, seductive voice, as if he held some special place in her heart.

  Leigh knew what Diosa was up to—she was using Courtney Boyce to try and make Neil jealous. Leigh glanced back at Neil, wondering if he was still enamored of his Spanish mistress, for this was their first meeting in over four years, and dressed in a severely tailored black riding habit with a black felt hat, a diaphanous black veil framing her creamy-complexioned face, the only touch of color a crimson silk scarf around her white-collared throat, the Widow Alvarado was quite a stunning woman.

  But Neil was looking at Courtney Boyce as he reached out to take the hand being extended to him.

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you since I’ve been here in the territories,” Courtney said with Southern courtliness, shaking Neil’s hand.

  “Mr. Boyce, was it? I knew a Charles Boyce when I was at Yale. Any relation to you?” Neil asked in polite conversation.

  “Oh, no, sir, I’m a South Carolinian. Thought my Southern drawl would have marked me. Wouldn’t ever catch me up North, no, sir, and certainly not at school,” he said. “In fact, wouldn’t have caught me at school at all,” he added with a deep laugh. “Though, actually, sir, I attended South Carolina College,” he admitted.

  “Then perhaps you knew my cousin, Adam Braedon? He went there.” Neil asked.

  Courtney frowned thoughtfully. “No, can’t say I did, sir,” he said, looking sheepish. “’Course, my academic career is one I’m not overly proud of. When I did manage to attend class, bein’ fonder, sir, of the racetrack and gaming tables, it was probably during a different year than when your cousin was there. Apparently, we just missed each other.”

  “Apparently, although there was a time when Adam enjoyed the racetrack and gaming tables more than his studies,” Neil said, obviously agreeing with the man.

  “Poor Courtney was also in this war you fought,” Diosa said, leaning against the Southerner in closer intimacy and engulfing him in a cloud of heady perfume. “He was wounded most seriously when he arrived in Santa Fe, and I have helped him to recover, haven’t I, mi amado?”
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br />   Courtney stared down into Diosa’s upturned face, his feelings for the beautiful Spanish woman evident by the blatant manner in which he caressed her cheek, which was the delicate shade of a damask rose, the rosy blush of maidenly modesty, he thought with just a flash of a twisted smile.

  “Ma’am, so grateful am I, I intend to make you my bride one fine day,” he said with lover-like fervor, grasping her gloved hand possessively, but Diosa removed her hand to adjust her veil.

  “I trust you have fully recovered from your injuries?” Neil questioned, thinking the South Carolinian must have for he looked in extremely good health. The man was of average height and build, although his waistline was thickening from too little activity and too much fine food and wine, Neil speculated, smelling the alcohol on his breath. With his black hair and carefully trimmed mustache and side whiskers, his eyes a tobacco brown shade, and his features of a classical mold, he would be considered quite handsome by most, although there was a flaccidness about his face; showing in the weakness of the line of his chin and the soft fullness of his lips.

  “Why, thank you, sir; I have recovered completely,” Courtney replied easily. “And you, Mr. Braedon? Not wounded, were you?”

  “I was lucky. Not a scratch,” Neil replied, automatically touching the blue ribbon around his braid of golden hair, and drawing several curious eyes to it.

  “I had heard, sir, that you spent much of your youth with the Comanche, but I must say I hadn’t expected to see you looking rather like one,” Courtney commented with a smile. “After all, sir, you stand before me bare chested, wearing buckskins and moccasins, the shoes those heathens wear, and sporting a braid. Not the usual gentlemanly attire.”

  “You will find that Neil is not the usual gentleman but is muy macho,” Diosa advised.

  Courtney Boyce flushed a ruddy hue as he glanced down at her, only to find her gaze intent on Neil. “Quite the savage, eh?” he said, some of the good humor, and the refinement, gone from his voice.