Glaring at him, she refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.
"You can return the shirt at some more convenient time," he said, eying her barely disguised semi-nakedness beneath the wet clothes. "At the moment, you seem to have more need of it than I do." Then, with a brief parting grin, he turned and strode off toward the guesthouse.
Silently seething, Christie made her way to the back door of the main house alone.
That evening Charles and Garrett dined alone in the large dining room, Christie having sent word that she was not feeling well and would be taking supper in her room.
"I can't understand it," puzzled Charles. "I saw her just this afternoon looking fit and energetic as she rode off after lunch. I'd better go up after dinner and see if there's anything seriously wrong. Almeira says it's nothing to worry about, but I'd feel better if I checked myself."
He missed the faint glint of amusement in Garrett's eyes as his guest forked a piece of roasted fowl into his mouth.
Christie would have remained in her room for more than the total of three meals she missed at the table had it not been for the arrival of Aunt Celia the following afternoon. While Charles had been satisfied with Christie's complaint of feeling "just not very well," his sister, once having examined her niece with all the thoroughness she had employed since Christie was little^ she declared that her present state of ill health was "imaginary" and insisted she descend from her room and begin acting like a young woman about to turn eighteen in two days. The aunt's final order came about largely because of the arrival of some early guests for the ball.
Mr. and Mrs. Richard Seymour were friends of Charles' who lived in Richmond and their late-afternoon arrival heralded what would be a continual flow of people who would spend several days as guests of the Trevellyans, culminating in the celebration of the ball itself.
Aunt Celia was urging Christie to hurry and finish dressing so they might greet the Seymours by having tea on the terrace, and Christie reluctantly complied with her aunt's wishes.
Giving a last glance at herself in the mirror, she decided she approved of what she saw and followed Celia out of the room.
As they descended the stairs, Christie a youthful vision in summer white, Celia wearing her usual pale lavender, they heard more than one female voice coming from the terrace, and among the male voices which blended in, Christie recognized Charles' deep baritone and, yes, that low, throaty chuckle could only belong to Garrett Randall.
Taking a deep breath, she tilted her chin slightly higher than usual and followed her aunt onto the terrace.
Noticing their entrance, Charles stepped forward to take his sister's hand and flashed Christie a quick smile.
"Ah, my dears! You're just in time to meet our guests before we take tea. Lavinia, Richard, you both remember my sister, Celia? And this, of course, is Christie."
He placed an arm about his daughter's waist, marshaling her forward, and Christie made a polite curtsy to the older couple.
Lavinia Seymour was a simple, good-natured woman who had known her mother, and Christie gave her the warm smile she reserved especially for friends she knew well.
"Christie, I'd hardly have recognized you—you've become such a beauty," said Lavinia, hugging Christie affectionately.
Richard Seymour, who was Lavinia's second husband, having wed her five years before, bowed politely and smiled.
"I never knew your mother, as Vinnie did, but from all I've heard of her, you certainly have inherited her beauty, my dear," said Richard.
Christie smiled politely, but her attention was drawn to the far end of the terrace where Garrett Randall was involved in conversation with a stunning brunette in her mid-twenties.
Noticing his daughter's glance, Charles broke in, "The Seymours have brought a surprise guest with them, darlin'—Richard's recently widowed daughter, by his first marriage."
Charles was propelling Christie in the direction of the closely conversing couple, who broke off their dialogue when they noticed their host.
"Ah, Mr. Randall, Mistress Mayfield, please excuse the interruption, but I don't believe all the introductions have been made. Mistress Mayfield— er, Laurette, is it? May I present my daughter, Christie Trevellyan?"
The dark-haired woman then turned from Garrett, upon whom she had been working a coy smile, and surveyed the younger woman whose entrance she had already noted out of the corner of her eye. Her reaction was instant dislike, for Laurette Mayfield had long been used to being the center of attention at any social gathering she attended, and her quick assessment of Christie's unsurpassed, fresh, young beauty gave her every reason to regard the girl as a detestable rival. Half-closing her heavy-lidded dark eyes, she purred vaguely in Christie's direction.
"Why, yes, the child whose birthday we celebrate. How charming!"
Christie bristled at the remark, finding it especially smarting in the wake of Garrett's recent treatment of her, and she suddenly became determined not to say or do anything now that would reveal her to be anything but a mature young woman. Drawing herself up into her most elegant posture, she smiled sweetly as she responded.
"My dear Mistress Mayfield, welcome to Windreach. How courageous of you not to let your state of mourning interfere with your enjoyment of a social life. They say a true observation of mourning can be so boring!"
As she spoke, she took in the widow's appearance. Laurette was a good three inches shorter than Christie and had a voluptuously well-rounded figure, fully apparent beneath the black clothes she wore. But if they were widow's weeds, noted Christie, it was only their color that made them so, for every line of the brunette's gown seemed designed with only one thing in mind—to draw attention to an amply endowed figure. Her fair skin suggested she never appeared in the summer sun without a protective bonnet, long sleeves, and gloves, for it was white and flawless, and against it the dark eyes that looked out from her beautiful oval face were worldly and knowing.
Now, as she regarded her, Christie was aware she wasn't the only one looking the young widow over; Garrett Randall's eyes roamed casually over Laurette's black-clad form and Christie was annoyed to find that this irritated her. What she hadn't noticed was how, while she had been taking in the widow, Garrett's gaze had thoroughly surveyed her own lithe form, making no secret he liked what he saw there.
But Laurette had not missed his appraisal of Christie, and with all the artful winsomeness her experience could muster, she leaned on Garrett's arm and cooed, "Oh, Mr. Randall, I do believe tea is finally served. Won't you tell me how you like yours? I'd love to fix you a cup myself." And shooting Christie a disdainful glance, she brushed directly past her and Charles, and moved toward the tea table across the terrace.
"Really, Laurette," said Charles, moving after her, "there are servants here well-trained to serve tea—"
"Never mind, Father," said Christie in a voice loud enough for Laurette to hear. "Some people just naturally find themselves suited for certain kinds of tasks."
Then Christie looked up to find Garrett studying her. She was feeling good about herself at the moment, enjoying a newly found confidence that stemmed from her success at dealing with the widow's threatening barbs and looks, and this gave her the courage to face him in this, their first encounter since the incident in the woods.
"I hope you are enjoying yourself, Mr. Randall," she said in her most polite tone of voice. "I'm afraid tea parties have a way of becoming boring."
"Sometimes one needs the relaxation of quieter recreations," Garrett replied, grinning down at her, "to offset those of a more exciting nature—swim parties, for example, which are anything but boring."
Christie flushed hotly at the remark, her anger rising, so swiftly to the surface that it threatened to disrupt all her resolutions to behave in an adult fashion.
"You'd better go and have your tea, sir, for it is readily obvious that its civilizing effects ought be availed of none too soon in your case."
And with the sound of his low l
aughter in her ear, she turned and went to join the Seymours as they chatted with her aunt.
Garrett's grin broadened as he watched her slender hips move beguilingly away from him, and his look was caught by Laurette as she returned with his cup of tea.
Frowning in the direction of his glance, the widow handed him his cup before picking up her black lace fan and fluttering it rapidly while she gave Garrett a thoroughly coquettish look.
"Tell me all about the Charleston low country, Mr. Randall. Since its your home, I'm sure it must be a fascinating place."
As Christie sat down beside her aunt, she churned with fury. She might have known he'd behave insufferably true-to-form. Oh, why had she even bothered to address him at all? And he thought he would give her lessons in manners! The arrogant bastard! Well, she had learned her own lesson regarding Garrett Randall. From now until he left, she would have nothing more to do with him, beyond the barest civilities. Laurette Mayfield was welcome to him. They deserved each other! But out of the corner of her eye, as she saw Garrett bending to whisper something in Laurette's ear and heard the brunette's responding laughter, she wondered why she felt the urge to take the teacup she now held in one delicate hand, and smash it to the ground.
Dinner that evening was a long and difficult affair for Christie. She found herself seated between Richard Seymour and Garrett, who was across from Laurette. Her latest determination to avoid Randall forced her to turn her conversation toward Seymour, who was not the wittiest dinner guest to be found, and to make things worse, her proximity to Garrett and the widow made it impossible to avoid overhearing every syllable of that preying female's overly obvious attempts to captivate and beguile the handsome South Carolina bachelor.
It was plain to see that Laurette Mayfield was letting no grass grow under her feet where men were concerned. Why, her late husband might not yet be cold in his tomb, and here was his widow, flirting and playing the coquette's she lined up her next quarry! And it was equally obvious, Christie noted with barely disguised dissatisfaction, that Garrett Randall was enjoying his role in the whole disgusting display!
Finally relieved to find dinner over, Christie pleaded a headache and excused herself from the company of the other women, who had gathered in the drawing room while the men stayed to linger over their brandy and cigars. The last thing she needed was to find herself trapped in a room with Laurette Mayfield! ,
Once in her chamber, she quickly changed to her riding breeches and made her way down the servants' staircase to the kitchen where she found a small cone of sugar. Breaking off a piece for Thunder, she slipped out and headed for the stables. She had seen little of him in the last few days, since she'd been avoiding Garrett, and she guiltily promised herself to make it up to the big horse when Randall was gone.
As she rounded the corner of the house where the terrace was, she noticed a pair of shadowy figures to one side of it; a closer look revealed that they belonged to Garrett and Laurette.
Christie froze on the path, hoping she hadn't been seen, but in a moment it became obvious that their attentions were only on each other. Garrett had the widow in his arms and their kiss was long and apparently passionate.
Not exactly sure why this sight should suddenly cause her anger, Christie tore off in the direction of Thunder's stall.
When she reached it, she was breathless and feeling strangely on the verge of tears.
"Damn him, Thunder! He probably can't pass a woman by without trying out how she fits in his arms! He's nothing but a womanizer, and an uncouth, arrogant one at that."
The big horse nuzzled the pocket of her vest where she had the sugar and she reached in absent-mindedly and fed it to him.
"I can't wait until he goes home, Thunder. He's done nothing but make trouble for me since he came here. Damn him and his bitchy widow!"
The stallion nickered softly to her in the darkness, and at the sound, Christie began to calm down and feel better. She stayed with him for some time then, seeking and finding the solace and comfort a talk with the big horse had always afforded her.
Garrett entered the guesthouse in a thoughtful mood. The visit to Windreach was working out better than he had expected. Trevellyan's animals comprised some of the finest horseflesh he'd ever seen, and he was pleased with the selections he'd made for purchase. The cost was greater than he'd ever incurred for breeding stock, but more than fair for the quality he was getting. This, he noted satisfactorily, was because Charles Trevellyan himself was a fair man to deal with, as well as an admirably able and competent businessman, planter, and, clearly, breeder of fine horses. Garrett had found him intelligent, canny, and personable, a combination rarely found in one of his immense wealth and station. And he was self-made, a fact Garrett particularly admired and respected, for was he not himself largely the product of his own making? Yes, this had been a productive trip, sure to lead to equally satisfying future dealings, and he was no longer begrudging the time it had cost to make it. He lit a couple of candles in the elegant silver candlesticks dotting the room here and there, and then a cheroot, before stretching out comfortably on the big tester bed that filled one end of the warmly appointed room.
Even the accompanying social involvements had proved to be—interesting. He paused briefly over an image of Christie Trevellyan as she had appeared on the terrace this afternoon. He smiled softly to himself as he recalled the stunning picture she had presented, her dewy, fresh face dominated by those large turquoise eyes, at once open and captivating in what their greater depths promised. . . . She had worn an unadorned white gown that by its very simplicity had emphasized the slender beauty of her young body. And that face of unbelievable perfection and innocence . . . Innocence! Aye, there was the rub! She was innocent—a protected, sheltered virgin, if he'd ever seen one, and, with an annoyed flick of his cigar ash into the nearby ashtray, he reminded himself of what he'd come dangerously close to forgetting. Christie Trevellyan was off limits, not only because she was the adored daughter of a man he'd come to like and respect, but, as he reminded himself for the dozenth time, or more, because dalliances with young, inexperienced females were not a part of his style. He had more sense and scruples than to be involved in the business of deflowering wide-eyed virgins!
Now, willing, experienced women were another matter entirely. His thoughts turned toward Laurette Mayfield. She had made no secret of her attraction toward him; he'd seen that look too many times before. And their encounter on the terrace had confirmed her ready availability.
He picked up his watch from the small candle stand beside the bed, where he'd placed it. Nine o'clock. It shouldn't be too long now. She'd come. She had said it would depend on whether she could get away unseen from her bedchamber at the house, but he knew she would. Women like her always managed.
His mind drifted in anticipation of the coming tryst. Laurette would be a tasty enough little morsel. Her figure was nicely rounded and she had a beautiful face. Her eyes had told him what their later embrace had verified. She knew her way around men! His lips curled into a self-satisfied smile and his eyes half-closed in lazy anticipation of what lay ahead. It had been awhile since he'd had a woman. The timing on this was just about right. From time to time a man found it necessary to relieve the ache in his groin!
Christie made her way noiselessly from the stables as she walked the path leading back to the house. The moon was almost full tonight, affording plenty of light to see things clearly, but even if it had been moonless, she would have had little trouble finding her way, so familiar was this route.
It must be late, she realized, as she passed through the apple orchard that stood near one end of the compound where the guesthouses lay. She hoped Almeira hadn't become concerned regarding her whereabouts. But that was unlikely. Mistress Debbs had seen her take the sugar for Thunder; she would have told them where she was likely to be—as if they, anyone in the household, wouldn't be able to guess where Christie was when she disappeared for a while like this! Hadn't Aunt Celia made a reg
ular habit of complaining about her constant attentions to Thunder?
Suddenly she stopped still in her tracks as she spied something moving across the shadows thrown by the great oak trees that stood like sentinels along the walk leading from the main house to the guest cottages. Someone, was more likely! Christie took a quick sidestep into the shadow of a nearby apple tree and peered out cautiously at the moving figure up ahead. There, in a long black cloak that alternately disappeared as it merged into inky shadows and reappeared, not black at all, but rather, silvery and iridescent as it was washed by the moonlight, came the figure of a woman moving steadily and quietly toward the one guest cottage with a light in the windows—the one where Garrett Randall stayed!
Christie took a small step forward, as far as she dared without totally exposing herself to that selfsame flood of silvery light that revealed the cloaked figure. She squinted to try to get a better look as the woman reached Randall's door. Then squinting became unnecessary. As the door opened, it bathed the visitor with interior light from the cottage; and at the same time, the hood of the cloak fell back to reveal the finely turned profile of Laurette Mayfield!
Garrett greeted her dressed casually in his habitual tight riding breeches, high, shiny boots and a white dress shirt worn open to the waist. Christie saw him make a slight bow as he took Laurette's hand and led her inside. Then the door closed, and Christie once more felt herself alone with the moonlight and her spinning thoughts.
So that was the way of their game! She fumed angrily, chewing her lower lip as she felt a hot flush invade her body. Clearly, Garrett Randall wasted little time in taking what suited him where women were concerned! Again, she was filled with angry annoyance at the notion that this should bother her. Why should she concern herself over the man's obvious commitment to lecherous pursuits? Hadn't she assessed him thusly from the start? And what surprise was there in the widow's behavior? It had been apparent from the moment she had seen her that Laurette Mayfield was a female on the prowl. It only remained until now, and the witnessing of this charming little scene, to determine the exact intensity and extent of her hunting and snaring techniques. Techniques, indeed! They were outright overtures, she corrected herself. And snaring was too subtle a word also. Besides, how did one snare a willing prey?
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