In answer, Christie blew him a kiss with slender, wet, bath-scented fingers.
Half an hour later Christie floated into Garrett's old room. She wore a narrow-waisted ivory silk dressing gown with deep green embroidery on the sleeves' edges and hem. It had a neckline cut so low as to be what Almeira or Aunt Celia would once have termed "indecent." A gift from Garrett, it had been ordered and sent from Charleston just a few days before, along with the seamstress who had made it and who had orders to supply his wife with a grand new wardrobe in the latest mode. Her hair was still piled high atop the crown of her head in a cluster of curls and ringlets, as she had worn it for her bath, and the softly curling tendrils which had pulled loose here and there framed her face enchantingly, endowing it with an angelic sweetness that was not past being fraught with womanly allure.
Garrett rose from the chair he occupied near the fireplace as he heard the door open. Then he stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at her.
Christie stopped, took one look at her husband's face, and made a low curtsy which exposed the rest of what her decolletage left bare. When she rose, there was an impish smile on her face.
"Does my husband approve?" she asked coyly.
"As well you realize, minx!" He grinned. Then he opened his arms to her and Christie came into them eagerly.
Finally, after much kissing and fondling to show her how much he did approve, Garrett murmured, "Indeed, I had asked you in here for a purpose apart from this which I definitely deem more important; but after I make love to you, lest my befuddled brain completely forget, remind me to show you my surprise, will you, love?"
"Surprise?" questioned Christie, wonder bright in her eyes.
"Later, love," breathed Garrett. "Later."
And so, later, much later, Garrett saw Christie move from where she lay curled in his arms and prop herself atop his chest, her large eyes, still full of the passion-laden sensuality of their love-making, gazing openly into his.
"It's each time so different," said Christie. "How is it that one reads and hears tales of lovers growing tired of each other, when there's nothing tiresome about love-making?—nothing!"
Garrett smiled at her, pausing to pick up and nibble the tips of her fingers which rested on his chest. "Christie—little innocent, I almost hate to disillusion you, kitten, but I suppose I must. Most lovers fail to find what we have. When you and I make love, each time is like the first time with us because of the bottomless splendor of our love for each other. If our love has no limits, then neither can the modes of its expression—in our pleasure. These bored lovers we hear of from time to time—perhaps they do not love at all, but only taste their bodies' delights. Without love, these quickly pale or grow surfeit. Lacking the stronger tie, what passes between such poor wretches is doomed to fade away and cannot begin to match the shining wonder you and I have shared. Believe it, love. What we have found, you and I, is the rare stuff few mortals ever taste. Poets and dreamers sometimes speak of it, but few ever know it."
Christie gazed at him with a dreamy look in her eyes. "We are indeed blessed, then?"
"Blessed, surely," he replied, taking her lips with his again. Then, when he had kissed them, he suddenly bit the tip of her nose, saying, "Minx! You've let me forget the surprise!"
"Surprise?" murmured Christie. "Was there a surprise?" And she snuggled closer to him, pushing her nose into the hollow at the base of his neck.
Garrett chuckled and squeezed her tightly. "You've become a complete wanton, Christie Randall."
"Mmm," came the reply.
"But it is a very special surprise, love," he whispered.
Sighing, his wife raised her head. "Very special?"
"I promise." Garrett laughed. "But come, first let's put you back in your gown. A man's got to be able to
concentrate some time!''
When they had done so, and he, too, had dressed, Garrett walked over to the lowboy near the door and took from it a long, black, leather-covered box.
"This is something I wanted to give you weeks ago, but as it was in Charleston, and I was committed to remaining here with you throughout your recovery, I decided it would have to wait. It is my gift to you for giving me a son, Christie. It's one of the few pieces which remain from my parents' estate, for at the time of the massacre, it was in Charleston for a small repair to the clasp, and for various reasons, remained there all these years, in Carlisle's care, until today, when Jesse was kind enough to retrieve it for us. Open it, love."
Christie took the box from him carefully and slowly lifted its heavy lid. Then she gasped.
Inside, on a black velvet liner, lay a heavy gold filigreed necklace. Set into it were eleven large emeralds, ten of them perfectly matched and set five to either side of a much larger one that hung lower in the center. Surrounding each stone was a ring of perfectly matched, large diamonds, their many facets winking at her from the reflected candlelight in the room.
Christie's head began to spin. She closed her eyes tightly and looked again. When she stared up at her husband's face, her own had gone white as the sheets on the bed nearby.
Expecting to see anything but such an expression on her face, Garrett questioned her, "Christie? Is aught amiss? If this offends you in some way—"
"No!" she said quickly. "It's not that. It's the most exquisite piece I've ever seen—a truly royal gift, but. . . Garrett, was there ever another piece like it? A duplicated piece of some kind, or—?"
Garrett shook his head. "It was made expressly for my mother on the occasion of my birth, designed by my father himself. See, here, on the back of the clasp, the initials 'JR' and 'MR' and the date of my birth— "
"Oh, Lord!" breathed Christie. "Wait here, darling, please. I'm going to fetch something!"
She ran toward the master bedroom, shouting, "Lula! Lula, come quickly!"
Minutes later, Christie and Lula returned to a puzzled-looking Garrett and Christie handed him the bracelet they had taken from Philip Stanhope's valuables box, forgotten all these months as it lay at the bottom of her lingerie drawer.
With the bracelet placed beside the necklace which Garrett still held in its open box, the designed match of the two pieces became instantly obvious.
"Where did you come by this?" questioned Garrett, his voice scarcely audible.
"Was it also your mother's?" asked Christie.
Garrett turned the back of the bracelet's clasp to the light. "Here are the initials, 'JR' and 'MR', and the date of Jesse's birth. There was also a pair of earrings which bore the same date."
"We stole—'borrowed'—the bracelet from my Uncle Philip when we were at his home in Charleston," explained Christie. "I had just discovered I was with child and felt I needed it in my desperation to run away before I became a burden to anyone."
At this, her husband reached out and softly touched her cheek. "You'll never be alone like that, or in any way approaching that, again," he said quietly. Then his green eyes grew somewhat harder.
"What was your uncle doing with this bracelet? We had supposed it lost, along with the earrings, in the fire."
"I'm not sure," answered Christie. "I can only tell you that we found it in a locked desk in his study—of sorts. ... At least, it was called the study. But I thought of it more as a trophy room. It's filled with all sorts of—that must be it!" she added, brightening. "Uncle Philip collects trophies, as he calls them, mementoes from all sorts of endeavors in which he's gained or won something. . . . There was a lovely-porcelain there which he won in a chess game with Mr. Jefferson. He displayed it as a prize. Perhaps this bracelet was won under similar circumstances! And if it was—"
"Philip might be able to tell us the name of the one who lost it, and, perhaps, the one we seek," finished Garrett.
"Exactly!" said Christie. "Oh, Garrett, to think after all these years, that I should be the one to perhaps provide a solid clue! We must go to Uncle Philip at once! Lula, please have my things packed, and Adam's, too. We—"
&
nbsp; "Hold on, love," said Garrett. "Stay a minute. From all you've told me of your Aunt Margaret, we need to first send some warning we're coming. This we can attend to in the morning. Then, once we've a reply, we may travel to Charleston."
Christie looked mildly disappointed, saying, "Of course, you're right, but I shall find it difficult waiting."
Garrett smiled softly at her. "In truth, I'm anxious, too, Christie, but I somehow feel, now I've waited all these years, a few days more can't matter much. And one can't simply barge in on a man like your uncle, unannounced, and begin asking the poor man such serious questions."
"Poor man, hummph!" snorted Lula.
"What say you, Lula?" queried Garrett.
"Ah said there's nothing poor or pitiful about that shifty-eyed old weasel!" Lula's black eyes shone fiercely.
"Now, Lu," said Christie, "just because you never took a liking to Uncle Philip, there's no reason you should go about calling him names!"
Garrett's eyes darted to Lula's face. "You base this dislike on reasons, Lula?"
"You can bet ah do, sir!" snapped the black woman. "All anyone needs to do is look him in the eye—try to, that is. Ah tell you, ah don't trust the man, and when ah get this feeling, ah'm always right. Ah'd question him real careful, Captain! Now, if you'll both excuse me, ah need to see Master Adam has his bath."
"Yes, of course," said Garrett, staring absent-mindedly, at the two pieces of jewelry he still held in his hands.
"Garrett?" questioned Christie after Lula had left. "You're pensive, darling. Do Lula's words disturb you?"
"What sort of a man is Philip Stanhope, Christie?" His tone was still quiet, almost introspective.
"Oh, thoroughly mild-mannered, kind, and generous, and not without 'charm. He—Garrett! Surely you can't think—"
Hearing the alarm in her voice, Garrett smiled, breaking out of his thoughtful state. "No, of course not, sweet. Come, let me put these on you. I have a wish to see you in Randall finery."
Smiling, Christie turned that he might place the necklace about her. After he had fastened it, and the bracelet at her wrist, he walked her to the mirror hanging on the far wall.
"Oh, darling! They take my breath away!" Christie exclaimed.
"Not so much mine, as the woman wearing them," said Garrett behind her as he bent to kiss the nape of her neck.
Shivering deliciously, Christie turned to face her husband, wrapping both arms about his neck. "Thank you, Garrett. I'll treasure them always, not only because they were your mother's, but because you gave them to me. —Oh, dear! Do you think Uncle Philip will claim the bracelet back?"
"Not if he's the kind, generous man you say he is, and if I pay him its worth," said Garrett. "Now, what say you to changing into some stunning gown to set off these jewels in a manner appropriate for having dinner with Jesse? I'll admit this tempting creation shows them off beautifully," he said, running a finger down the cleavage she displayed before him, "but I'm not about to share such with Brother Jess!"
Laughing, Christie stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on her husband's lips and went inside to change.
Hate that night Garrett lay quietly on the big bed holding his sleeping wife in his arms. Tenderly he placed a kiss on the fragrant, pale hair that softly tickled his chin. Christie . . . there were times, especially in moments like this, when he still couldn't believe she was really here in his arms again, his alone, and he would lie awake for some time after she had already fallen asleep and simply hold her this way, feeling her close, loving her with his heart and mind, as he just had with his body. . . .
His thoughts drifted back over the evening's events. How exquisitely beautiful she had looked going down to dinner, bedecked in the jewels . . . his wife! Wearing the things his mother had worn for his father ... it was things as they should be . . . Christie rightfully bequeathed the gifts of love Marianne had received from Jeremy . . . rich and fitting tokens of cherished love and honor from an adoring husband. And one day, perhaps, he and Christie would have a daughter who would wear them, or their son would give them in equally loving tribute to a wife of his own. ...
He smiled as he thought of Christie's suggestion that perhaps Jesse should be given the bracelet, it having his birthdate on it, to bestow upon a wife of his choosing someday. It was like her to think that way, and Garrett had told her she might ask Jess herself, which she had, once his brother had gotten over his astonishment at seeing the bracelet and learning how she had come by it. But Jesse had insisted Christie keep both pieces, saying good-naturedly, "If I ever do find a woman to make me as happy as you obviously have made Garrett, I'll simply do what our father did for our mother-design her something of her own, and create a new set of Randall heirlooms."
Garrett smiled to himself. He may have been tragically bereft of loving parents early in his life, but now, he considered himself richly gifted with the presence of these people he loved and was so close to. . . . Jesse . . . who could ask for a finer brother— or friend? . . . Christie . . . there weren't words to do justice in describing her place in his life. . . . Adam, their tiny son ... a living, breathing, extension of their love, cherished by them as such, and also for the person he had already begun to be . . . Ah, Garrett Randall, he thought to himself, you're a lucky man! To think, only a few short months ago, he had been so angry, so bitter. But Christie's love had changed all that. Even his quest of twenty years seemed vaguely unimportant now. . . . Strange, he thought, that now, in the midst of all this feeling of bounty, he should find himself standing on the threshold of finding the answer to that puzzle. Was it still important? Yes, he had to admit it was, but not in the same way it had been, not in that consuming way that left him no other avenues for living—and none for loving. . . . No, he would pursue it now only as a matter of rightful justice to be served and not in the spirit of terrible vengeance, that devouring monster he had lived with all too long. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling satisfied with this assessment.
Then his thoughts turned to the particulars the revelation of the bracelet had turned up. . . . Philip Stanhope—what was his part in this likely to be? On the one hand, he felt inclined to accept Christie's surmisal of what had happened. Stanhope, being a wagering man, could easily have acquired it in such a manner. It was entirely plausible. But what of Lula's fears and insinuations? He could not put those aside too lightly. He felt he knew the black woman well-well enough to trust her instincts. Hadn't he hired her in the first place because of the canny judgment and intelligence he had read in her eyes? She was no superstitious fool; she had been around enough of humanity's motley array to know human nature, and know it well. Why didn't she trust Stanhope?
He shook his head, trying to clear it enough to refocus and summon up an image of Stanhope the evening he had met him at the ball. . . . It was no use. He had been so intent on his teasing pursuit of Christie, his mind had been on little else. Again he smiled to himself and then bent to place a soft kiss on his wife's slightly parted lips. Christie stirred and snuggled closer to him and his arms tightened about her. Even then, he had probably already begun to fall in love with her—small wonder he couldn't remember anything of Philip Stanhope!
His thoughts drifted again. . . . Toward the end of dinner, when Christie had gone upstairs to feed Adam, he and Jesse had discussed the matter some. Jesse's feelings were similar to his own. He and Christie would travel to Charleston with the idea of finding out from Stanhope who had previously owned the bracelet. In the meantime, Jesse would go to Carlisle and set in motion a quiet investigation of Stanhope's affairs over the past twenty years or so, to see if this might shed any light on the darker possibilities Lula implied. They would not trouble Christie with knowledge of this. In all likelihood, Stanhope's character would come out unsullied, and there was no reason to alarm her unduly. He would do anything to keep her from even the slightest hurt! Of course, if, by some remote chance her uncle were . . . guilty—he had to say it, if only to himself— well, he would cross that bridge if, an
d only, if, he came to it. It wasn't likely to happen. Still, why would a man who had won such a fabulous piece of jewelry keep it hidden away in a locked desk? Why wouldn't he have it seen on the arm of his wife or daughters? These were questions which had to be asked. And he would watch Stanhope's eyes very carefully when he asked them. . . .
Chapter Twenty Six
Christie sat in the middle of the bed hugging her knees as they supported her chin. She felt loved, and pampered and lazy, as she always did these days after a morning in bed with Garrett. This morning he had risen earlier than he usually did in the days since they had begun sharing this bed. Measures had to be taken, he had explained, to find out who the gunman was who had threatened their safety, and the first step was a thorough tracking and search of the area involved in yesterday's attack. So he and Jesse had ridden off quite early with some of the men, planning to go to the Indian village to enlist Laughing Bear's help, and then to commence searching. She shivered slightly and hugged her knees more tightly in an attempt to dispel a sudden wash of fear which flooded her as she was struck by the notion that Garrett could be in danger.
"Dear God! Keep him safe, please," she whispered softly, and then, without being able to control them, she felt hot tears slide down her cheeks and a sob wrench loose from her tightly constricted throat.
At that moment Lula's familiar tapping came at the door. "Christie, honey? You awake?"
Christie tried to stifle her tears, but failed completely, and so she answered in a watered voice. "C-Come in, Lu."
The door opened, and a buckskinned Lula marched in, her breeches lending authority to her stride.
"Ah thought ah heard tears! What are you crying over, baby? Lover's quarrel?" she asked, coming over to hug her young friend.
"Oh, no, Lu! Just the opposite, really. I—I was just feeling so terribly happy and in love and then I thought of the possible danger he might be in and— oh, Lula, it frightened me so! I couldn't even bear the thought of anything hurting him! Do I sound terribly foolish to you?"
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