Stunned, he was a moment wiping the moisture out of his eyes. Then looking for Juliette, he saw she was racing down the starlit path toward the hotel, looking a creature of mist and dew in her pale clinging gown as she disappeared beyond the hibiscus trees like a dream into the void.
Gasping for breath, Juliette ran as fast as she could. Slowing only when she neared the hotel steps and realized he wasn't following. Then dropping her pace to a walk, she tried to regain some composure.
It would never do to appear before everyone in her present wild-eyed state. Putting her hands to her cheeks, she found them burning even as her fingers trembled. How can he affect me so? She asked herself realizing what a startling menace he had become. It's just that he's so . . . so different from all the others, and so . . . well, really so primitive. For a while he had been so polite and almost distant, but now . . .
A frown puckered her brow as she walked across the lawn. No after tonight she must never see him again. Not even for a moment, and particularly not alone. And composing her features in as placid a line as she could manage, Juliette walked up the hotel steps and entered the laughing gaiety.
Chapter 31
Brandon did not follow Juliette but the following morning, feeling an urgency he had never before experienced concerning a woman, he went to the stables expecting to meet her for her regular ride. When she didn't appear after a half hour had passed he went back to the hotel and inquired her whereabouts from the steward.
"With Lord Keiths, I'm quite sure, sir. I saw her with him only a few moments ago. Playing tennis they were."
Brandon tipped the lad and moved onto the tennis courts where he found Juliette, slim and lovely in her white tennis dress. She pretended not to notice his arrival and played with first one partner and then another, never giving him a moment to speak to her. At first, relieved she hadn't left the island; Brandon found her evasive ploys amusing. But after an hour, his good humor turned to frustration and he approached Rodney Keiths who was standing on the sidelines, having just lost a game to Roberto.
As Rodney saw M. Phillips striding toward him, he tried to conceal some of his displeasure. Gossip had informed him of this Frenchman's constant attentions to Juliette before his arrival. Today Juliette had been marvelously attentive to him while ignoring this fellow and he felt -his confidence returning.
Perhaps, Rodney mused, Phillips was rankled at finding himself rejected. Certainly there was something sinister, even dangerous in his deliberate manner-the man was as balanced and calculating as a cat preparing to spring. Rodney cleared his throat. For the present, he decided, it was best to be civil.
So swinging his racket boyishly over his shoulder, he said, "Good afternoon, Monsieur Phillips. I see you have an interest in tennis this morning," knowing full well it wasn't tennis that brought him.
Phillips appeared to take the comment good-naturedly. "Yes, I'm interested. But it appears I have no luck today."
"What a pity," Rodney retorted. "Still possibly another time. Tennis is not usually my game, but Miss Thorpe wanted especially to play this morning. Horse racing is my sport. Are you planning to attend the Spanish Cup tomorrow?"
Brandon's expression was opaque. "I wouldn't miss it. I'm also interested in racing."
"Yes, so I've heard. Miss Thorpe did mention you had a stud farm nearby," said Rodney, a touch of boredom entering his tone. "But I don't think I've ever heard of it."
Brandon smiled as if indulging the other man's ignorance. "It is a private stud, so I doubt you would be acquainted with the name. The stallion is not available to outsiders. He is pure Arabian, and I don't taint his blood with lesser quality mares."
"Oh?" Rodney lifted his eyebrows disdainfully. "I've never thought highly of Arabian blood," he replied. "Our English stock is the finest in the world!"
"You think so? But I disagree," Brandon countered. "I think the purer the Arabian blood, the finer the horse. Unfortunately, you English have diluted the Arabian blood in your stock to such a degree that you've taken the strength from their legs and the fire from their blood. Now your English thoroughbreds are constantly lame and can't travel a fraction of the distance an Arabian can."
Rodney flushed. What a fool this Frenchman was. Everyone knew English horses to be superior to anything in the world. And more irritating was the factual manner in which he spoke, as if what he said was merely the truth, nothing more or less.
"Well then, I think we should test this theory of yours," Rodney sneered. "Titian Regency is the finest example of English stock ever foaled. If you have a horse you think is finer, enter him in the Spanish Cup tomorrow. We'll match their speed and see which of us has the better horse."
Phillips's grin was disconcerting-like that of a hungry animal confronted with a hearty meal. "Done, then," he said thrusting out a sinewy hand to seal the bargain with a shake. "And to make it more interesting, shall we make a side wager of say . . . twelve thousand pounds . . . even odds?"
Rodney's swaggering air slipped momentarily. He was short of cash. He would not actually receive his inheritance until next year, and he couldn't borrow any more. But of course, Rodney quickly assured himself, he couldn't possibly lose. By tomorrow night he would have the last word and the twelve thousand pounds. He shook Phillips's hand. "Done," he said.
The day of the Spanish Cup dawned sunny and hot. By ten o'clock, the large open area around the oval track was filled with milling spectators. Some wandered idly about while others arranged last-minute wagers, constantly scanning and rescanning programs before stuffing them into pockets with perspiring hands.
By half past ten, the lords and ladies and the governor of Las Flores del Mar had arrived and secured boxes and were now relaxing under white umbrellas with other important personages, while those less fortunate sweltered in the standing room between the track's railing and the front row of seating. From within her own box, Juliette Thorpe raised field glasses to observe the barns on the far side of the track where she knew Rodney would still be nervously overseeing every detail.
Moving to her left to the front row of boxes, Juliette spotted Lady Linley chattering vivaciously with Countess Landry seated next to her. Bosley was there too, sitting with several friends and looking cheerful, slightly drunk, and out of place holding a large cigar.
Still scanning to her left, Juliette noted Sir William's box was empty and, turning her glasses onto the third box, she was startled to find herself looking directly into the bioptic stare of another pair of field glasses.
Her lips pursed in a smirk as she jerked the glasses downward. Juliette didn't have to see the raved -black hair and the white smile to know it was Brandon Phillips and, embarrassed and confused, she turned away.
Finally the bugle sounded and the horses were parading past. There were six in the field, and Rodney's Titian Regency was third from the rail. The very essence of thoroughbred nobility, he trotted with agile grace, his ears pricked forward, his large dark eyes looking at the crowd.
Titian's jockey, nicknamed "Domino" for the two black moles on his left cheek, was suited up in white and gold silks that set off the horse's chestnut coat and held the Keiths's family crest. As they passed the stands, Domino leaned forward, standing up in his stirrups as Titian broke into a canter, his mane sweeping back against Domino like licking red flames.
There was a silver-gray horse entered by Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany, King Edward's own' nephew, and a dun colored horse, but few took notice of him, their attention being drawn instead to the horse bringing up the rear of the field, a black horse who danced on slender springy legs, his muscles rippling with every movement as the sunlight played off his burnished coat in flashes of blue-black.
As the black passed, Juliette chanced a glance in Brandon’s direction. Finding him watching his horse, she took the opportunity to study his well-etched profile, his firm jaw, and long straight nose that so resembled those of Roman coins. Her limbs tingled with the memory of her head pressing against his broad chest, the fasci
nating light in his black eyes, and his lips traveling over her heated flesh. Once in his arms she had wanted to stay. He had a way of making her forget' everything but herself. And yet she couldn't shake the intuitive sense of danger he aroused in her.
A movement behind her then made her turn to find Rodney entering the box, his coattails rumpled, his ascot limp from the heat as, sliding into the seat beside her, he began his usual retelling of all the frustrating mishaps in the barn.
Poor Rodney. He was always like this when Titian was racing, Juliette thought, and put a quieting hand on his arm. Rodney paused, finding himself enchanted by the fathomless orbs smiling at him from beneath her white cartwheel hat. He smiled in return, squeezing her gloved hand. Was ever a girl more perfect? Rodney asked himself. And with her blond hair drawn back in a thick chignon at the back of her long neck, she seemed as cool and fresh as a flower despite the heat.
Did she know of his recent difficulties? he wondered, swallowing nervously as he considered her reaction. If only his luck would change-she need never find out.
"I missed you," he whispered. "I can't tell you how much."
Rodney's devotion was written on his face and Juliette touched his arm fondly. How very dear he was.
"I've missed you, too," she said. "I've often recalled those days we used to spend in London and how you made me feel . . . well, rather special as no one ever had since before my father died. I'm very grateful."
Rodney's eyes flickered with a touch of pain. "I only wish you could find something more than gratitude in your heart. Maybe you were an outcast then. But now, you seem to vanquish every man who sees you. I've seen how they all ogle you and jump to your service at the slightest notice. And then there's that French frog Phillips. It makes me
think that. .." His lips couldn't bear to form the words.
For so long he had wanted her, time making him only more determined than ever. During the previous year, his mother had cast all the likeliest debutantes before him. But always he found himself thinking that none compared to Juliette. If he couldn't have her, then he would have no one. And if she insisted on her present track of avoiding marriage, then he wouldn't marry either. Sooner or later she would come to her senses-and he would be waiting.
Juliette placed a silencing finger on his mouth. "Rodney! How can you even think of such a thing? There is nothing between me and any of these men, even Monsieur Phillips. We are simply friends."
But as she mouthed these words, Juliette knew Brandon had awakened feelings in her beyond mere friendship. Rodney nodded, bringing her hand to his lips in a worshipful gesture. He was somewhat relieved by her assurances. But a persistent uneasiness still gnawed at him as he watched three buglers in red livery march onto the field and blow the call to the post.
There was something different about Juliette, a new femininity, particularly in her dress, and he couldn't help wondering if the change was not somehow linked to that detestable Frenchman.
The horses were well past the stands now, and at the bugler's call, the horses turned and moved briskly back down the track. The steward, a stout middle-aged man, governor of the 'island, stood at the starting line, flushed and sweltering, his face nearly matching the burgundy color of his elegant velvet coat as he held high the ceremonial pistol that he would fire to start the race.
Wrestling their excited mounts, the jockeys moved them into a line, one next to the other. As if in protest, the black pawed and stamped flinty hooves, digging at the thick turf and tossing his refined head. Then, in a burst of energy, he reared high, his forelegs stamping the air.
Two attendants in white dusters came to the jockey's aid, firmly taking the black's bridle and leading him into line with the others where he still danced beside them as the tension grew.
The governor raised his pistol a notch higher. Then the gun sounded, echoing against the stands. A roar rose from the crowd as, in an inferno of straining muscles and heaving lungs, the horses thrust forward, Titian Regency, with his extreme length of stride, getting a slight edge over the rest so at the end of a furlong he led by a length.
Hooves thundered, in a dull booming, mighty legs pounding against the turf as the horses rounded the first turn and then the next, Titian still staying in place, not gaining or losing against the pack that streamed behind. The black was in last place as he jerked his head fiercely against the rigid hold of his jockey.
In a blur the glistening horses blended with the bright silks as bodies surged down the far rail, the gray gaining ground on Titian until they were nose to nose. The crowd went wild as the two horses charged on; rounding the last turn still matching strides while neither jockey used his whip, each saving his horse's remaining strength for the finish.
Again the crowd roared, and at first Juliette didn't see the cause. But then, looking back in the pack, she saw the black stallion's jockey had released his check on the black's bridle-and now was leaning low in the saddle.
Clumps of turf flew from beneath the black's heels as he shot along the outside, past the pack and began bearing down on the lead horses. Domino raised his elbow to look back under his arm as he heard the crowd's roar. His face registered surprise. He had never considered the black as serious competition, yet the horse was coming on, his teeth bared, his eyes rolling as he charged boldly faster.
Now it seemed to Domino that the sun was suddenly hotter, and the distance to the finish line even further as he brought down his whip on his horse's chestnut flanks. The gray had already fallen behind and suddenly the black and the chestnut were all alone.
Domino gritted his teeth as the black's nose reached Titian's laboring shoulder. Then raising his whip high, and making it appear an accident, Domino swung it hard against the black as the smaller horse started to pass.
He was astonished when the black did not veer away. Instead, the horse's eyes rolled wickedly in his triangular head until they showed red at the corners. Then he lunged, teeth bared, not at Titian, but at Domino!
Surprised and thrown off balance, Domino jerked his big chestnut in a sudden unconscious movement that pulled the two horses together. It was an accident. But he had no time to recover. With a sickening crash, the heaving bodies collided.
Already, the crowd was on its feet, screaming as chestnut legs entangled with black for a horrifying moment before glistening flanks flung downward onto the scarred turf.
The black tumbled over himself, his head tucking down like a gymnast as he rolled forward, the rest of his body following in a Railing ball. The Arab jockey, wide-eyed and openmouthed, looked to the side before leaping off, avoiding by inches the large-boned bay as it thundered past like a heaving steam engine.
Domino was not so lucky. Titian fell on his side, pinning the jockey's leg beneath his full thirteen hundred fifty-seven pounds, and with white-hot shards of blinding pain, Domino heard his own leg snap like a dried branch.
The big horse thrashed, trying to get up, but losing his balance, he slipped and rolled onto his back, trapping Domino beneath him so that the jockey could only wait as the chestnut rolled over and crushed the life from him.
The crowd screamed and some women fainted. Juliette was out of her box, Rodney close behind. And in spite of her flouncing Persian silk dress, she ran to the railing, ducked under, and dashed toward the swarm of people already pressed around Domino.
Ahead of her a woman screamed and someone called for a doctor. Then, as the man-directly in front of her stepped aside, Juliette brought a hand to cover her mouth as she saw Domino, or rather, what had been Domino.
Juliette felt dizzy, and, swaying, she reached for Rodney. But she looked about only to find Brandon at her side, his dark eyes concerned but calm as he assessed her with a frown.
Wondering if she would faint, and silently damning the tightness of her stays, Juliette clasped Brandon's arm and leaned gratefully on its solid reassurance as she watched the horror.
To their left, the Arab jockey was getting to his feet slowly, his black and white
silks streaked with dirt and blood from an ugly cut across his forehead and abrasions on his chin and arms.
Together they walked toward him and the jockey salaamed as Brandon approached and laid a hand on his shoulder, speaking low Arabic words, full of warm concern. The jockey bowed again and smiled. He had apparently escaped serious injury and seemed humbled by Brandon's attention. Then Brandon waved to two other men who came and helped the jockey off the field.
He turned back to her then, searching her face and giving her a reassuring squeeze with the arm placed around her waist. "Let me take you from here. I'm afraid the other jockey is beyond any help," he said, indicating where the crowd was bending over Domino.
Still feeling sick and fearing she would faint, Juliette only nodded. If only she weren't laced so tight. If only she could get one clean breath of air clear to the bottom of her lungs. Oh, no wonder men thought women were weak when they had to be laced into something so tightly that they couldn't even get enough oxygen. So tottering in her high heels, Juliette let Brandon escort her back under the white rail and through the pressing throng toward the carriages parked under an avenue of trees behind the stands.
Desert Hostage Page 21