by Kay Hooper
Staring blankly at the wall, he muttered, “I slept through that?”
“You certainly did,” Banner said in amusement, closing the hall door behind her as she came into the room. “But then—that was what I wanted you to do.”
Pained, he demanded, “How could you let me sleep through one of the high points of my life, milady?”
“I'll wake you up next time,” she apologized gravely.
He pulled her down beside him, then frowned. “There's a smudge of green paint on your nose. Have you been working while I slept off the effects of your wicked fingers?”
She rubbed the smudge away, only saying in a vague tone, “Fancy that.”
“Banner—” He was uneasy, and wasn't quite sure why.
“I love you,” she said solemnly, gazing into his eyes.
“I love you, but—”
“Do you realize no man's ever slept in my bed before?”
Distracted, he said in mock horror, “What… never?”
“Never. You'll be the first to spend the night here.”
“Ummm.” He gazed at her, saying thoughtfully, “My father always said never to be the first at anything—to wait and see if anybody died from it.”
She slipped her arms up around his neck, smiling. “Next stop heaven?”
“I'm game,” he murmured, just before his lips found hers.
Rory found himself distracted quite a bit during the next few days. And he always seemed to be distracted just at the moment when he was wondering where Banner kept disappearing to. She would get him involved in something, whether it was talking to Jake or watching a young Thoroughbred being trained by Scottie, and then vanish. Anywhere from an hour to several hours later, he'd find her occupied with some innocuous chore, such as cutting flowers or discussing the evening's menu with the cook.
It was the in- between that bothered him.
But his future wife was maddeningly elusive. She never gave him a chance to ask what was going on, always distracting him with a seductive smile or an innocent remark—both of which were virtually guaranteed to put his mind on things other than questions.
“Jake, she's planning something!”
“I'd say the planning stage was past, lad. She's probably—um, executing the plan right now.”
“D'you know what she's doing?”
“I'm just guessing, lad.”
Rory was guessing as well, and his guesses led him to her cottage studio—where he found a cosy little cottage bare of any artist's paraphernalia. Only two completed paintings reposed placidly on easels. Her worktable, paints, brushes, blank canvases—all gone.
He ran her to earth in the rose garden, where she hadn't been only ten minutes before, and was determined not to be distracted this time.
“Banner, where's all your equipment?”
She looked up from her kneeling position before a splendid Crimson Glory and smiled at him. “Oh, I've moved it.”
Dropping down to sit cross- legged beside her, he frowned. “Why? And where?”
She was weeding industriously. “Why— because I wanted to. Where—that's none of your business, darling.”
Rory was unoffended, but uneasy. “You… just wanted someplace private to work?” he guessed.
“Something like that. You don't mind, do you, darling?”
“I'm not quite sure,” he said slowly. “You aren't—uh, busy getting even, are you, milady?”
“I'm weeding, Rory.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You worry too much,” she told him firmly.
“I think I haven't been worrying enough.”
Banner changed the subject abruptly. “You know, you never did tell me what you bribed Conner with to get him to accept that Creole cook during your party.”
Absently, he replied, “What? Oh, that. I just told him I needed his cooperation and help in my courtship of you, that's all. That butlerly exterior hides the soul of a romantic.”
She laughed softly. “So that's why he keeps glancing at my ring with a look of triumph. I did wonder.”
Rory blinked. “You're a devious wench! I wasn't going to tell you about that.”
“Caught you with your guard down, didn't I?”
“And distracted me again too. Banner—”
“I haven't asked you if you're going to New York. You are going with us, aren't you?”
He sighed, abandoning his fruitless probing. “I certainly don't want to miss your first show. I'm coming even if you tell me not to.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Revenge?” he suggested dryly.
“Rory, I'm surprised at you!”
“Are you?” he asked even more dryly.
She giggled suddenly and got to her feet. “Not really,” she confessed. “I rather thought you'd been worried about that.”
“Wouldn't care to set my mind at rest, I suppose?”
“Not just yet,” she responded gently, offering him a hand up.
Rory took the hand and rose to his feet, sighing again. “You're a devious, unscrupulous, conniving little witch, Miss Clairmont, and I can't think why I love you so much.”
“Amazing, isn't it?”
Having lost her for several hours on the day before they were to leave for New York, Rory was on the veranda when he heard her rather battered VW pull into the drive and up near the side of the house. He got to his feet, but had barely crossed to the steps when she came running lightly up them.
Before he could ask, she said cheerfully, “Just a few last- minute things I had to take care of in Charleston. Have you packed for the trip?”
“I even packed a suit of armor,” he said, slipping his arms around her as they stood together on the top step.
“Ah. Suitable for being flayed in, I assume?”
He winced. “That's a painful word.”
She kissed his chin. “Darling, I love your body just the way it is—unmarked.” Then added wickedly, “Trust me.”
“It's just that the other shoe's taking a damned long time to drop,” he explained.
“It should make a satisfying thud, then, don't you think?”
Rory groaned. “Milady, I'm going to do my damnedest never to get you mad again!”
TEN
THE TRIP TO New York was uneventful. They'd reserved a suite in a hotel fairly near the gallery, and spent a couple of hours settling in before taking a taxi to see how David Moore had set up for the show, which was scheduled to open the following day.
Banner surprised Rory by not appearing the least bit nervous; she was cheerful when David met them at the door, and didn't seem at all disturbed by the coming ordeal of public and critical scrutiny of her work.
It made Rory very nervous.
David conducted them on a tour of his gallery, explaining how and why he'd placed each of Banner's paintings as he had. Then he took the three of them—Banner, Rory, and Jake—out to dinner. He was unashamedly excited about the show, especially since everyone he'd invited to the opening had accepted; tomorrow promised to be a day to warm a gallery owner's heart.
Late that night, as they lay together in their room, Rory tried one last, plaintive time.
“Would you please drop the other shoe, milady?”
Moving even closer to his side, she murmured sleepily, “Can't stand the heat, hero?”
“The suspense.”
“Mmmm. It's good for your character, I'm sure.”
“Witch.”
When they arrived at the gallery the next afternoon, it was teeming with chattering people. David immediately met them, beaming, offering glasses of champagne and introductions. Rory enjoyed Banner's bemusement as people sincerely praised her work, and he stepped away from her to watch.
It was quite some time later that he became aware of someone staring at him, and turned his head to see a young lady who was a total stranger to him. As his eyes met hers, puzzled, she suddenly giggled and turned rather hastily away. Increasingly bewildered, he realized the
n that there was quite a bit of smothered laughter directed toward him. Uneasily aware that the shoe had somehow dropped without his noticing, Rory racked his brain, trying to figure out where it had landed.
Jake, who had wandered off to look over the paintings, suddenly materialized beside him. And the older man looked as if he were about to burst out laughing. “My boy,” he said unsteadily, “I sincerely hope and trust you have a strong ego.”
Rory looked at him with foreboding. “Will you please tell me what she's done?” he requested carefully.
Even more unsteadily, Jake said, “I think— she's made damned sure the punishment—fit the crime. You sprang the show on her, so… so she's springing something on you—at the show.”
Taking a deep breath, Rory said, “Where is it?”
Jake gestured helplessly. “Just around the corner there.”
Warily, Rory made his way around the corner indicated, studiously avoiding the smiling people staring at him. He rounded the corner, stopped… and his reaction—after the momentary impulse hurriedly to find himself a quiet, dark corner—was sheer rueful amusement.
Banner had gotten even. Oh, how she had gotten even.
The painting—tagged not for sale—was remarkably well done, especially considering the few days she'd had to work on it and the fact that she'd painted entirely from memory. He now knew why she'd “moved” her equipment and materials, and why she had disappeared so frequently these last days.
And he knew why laughing eyes kept following him.
Morning sunlight bathed the veranda in the foreground and the rose garden in the background. And on the veranda stood an obviously furious blond man with a brilliant green bed-sheet wrapped togalike around him. His hands were clutching slipping linen, and both his tousled hair and morning stubble indicated a rude awakening of some kind. And if Rory had dared to ignore the similarity between this man and himself, Banner had carefully provided a positive identification by detailing the fire-opal signet ring he always wore on his right hand.
He realized he was grinning, and heard the muffled sounds of chuckles trying to escape. Roll with the punches, Jake'd advised? Hell, the little witch had punched below his belt! But he couldn't get mad, for some reason. He just made an emphasized, capitalized, underlined note to himself never again to get her mad.
With an effort, he managed to get his face straightened out and sober. Shoring up the mental shields around his bruised ego, he turned and stoically ran the gauntlet of those amused faces again, until he was standing before Banner.
She was alone for the first time since they'd come in, sipping a glass of champagne and watching his approach with a meditative air. When he stood staring down at her, she said only, “Want your ring back?” in a very calm voice.
“Milady,” he said carefully, “I don't think I've ever had vengeance wreaked on me quite so thoroughly before now.”
“Thank you,” she responded politely.
“My ego's in shreds.”
“I thought it might be.”
“My pride is in my shoes.”
“These Clairmont women,” she mourned sympathetically.
“I don't think I've ever been so damned embarrassed in front of total strangers.”
“Poor man.”
“And Jake will never again be able to look at me with a straight face.”
She lifted a gently inquiring eyebrow and waited.
“If I were a reasonably sane, self- preserving male,” he said musingly, “I would run like hell from a woman who not only has a talent for devious revenge, but also knows damned well I'm not going to run anywhere at all.”
“Now, how could I know that?” she asked innocently. “I did ask if you wanted your ring back.”
“You're a witch.”
“So you've said.”
“I should walk out that door right now.”
“A sane man would,” she agreed seriously.
“Will you swear never to do this to me again?”
“I'll never do this particular thing to you again,” she said promptly.
“Because you never repeat yourself?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But if I make you mad, you'll still get even somehow?”
“What can I say?”
“I should definitely walk out that door.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Revenge is childish, you know.”
“Certainly.”
“Still … when I waltz with a Rebel, I guess I should expect to get my toes stepped on from time to time.”
“Only when you step on mine first.”
“I guess I'd better be careful from now on, huh?”
“That might be best.”
“Safer, anyway.”
“Uh-huh. Want your ring back?”
“Are you kidding?” He reached out to take her glass, setting it on a handy table, then pulled her into his arms with a fine disregard for all the people milling around. “I know a good thing when I latch on to one.”
Banner smiled slowly, her own arms sliding around his waist. “Now I can say it,” she murmured.
“Say what?”
“Thank you for saving my Tara, darling.”
“I didn't save it.” He nodded around at the paintings surrounding them, most with “sold” stickers next to them. “You saved it.”
“I know who saved it,” she said huskily, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him.
At Rory's request, Banner wore an antebellum-style gown for their wedding, in the rose garden of Jasmine Hall. Jake gave her away and Rory's mother, Laura, who had been a guest at the Hall for the past several weeks, was her matron of honor. And the entire neighborhood, along with numerous acquaintances from Charleston, turned out.
Since the couple had decided to defer their honeymoon for a few days and planned to remain at the Hall, there was no great rush to change clothes for a bridal trip; everyone ended up making a party day of it.
Banner and Rory wandered together among the guests in the garden, she still in her ruffled gown and he in a tuxedo, and it wasn't until late in the afternoon that they found themselves alone together.
“Too late to back out now, Mrs. Stewart,” he told her firmly, rubbing a possessive thumb across the wide band now accompanying her diamond.
“I could say the same for you,” she reminded him. “You're the one who has to put up with my peculiar Clairmont temper from now on.”
“If you know it's peculiar, why can't you do something about it?” he asked, curious.
“Like become rational?”
“It's just a thought, you understand.”
“Well, unfortunately for you, when I get mad I follow my instincts.”
“And they say get even?”
“You should know.”
“Don't remind me.” He sighed. “I can only be thankful that the damned painting isn't hanging in the main hall.”
“I like it in our bedroom.”
“And I know why. You just want to be sure I never forget how a Clairmont woman gets even.”
“Think of the embarrassment it'll save you in the future.”
He grinned suddenly. “Well, I'm delighted with the way things turned out, milady, but weren't you taking quite a chance with that painting? Were you so certain I wouldn't be furious enough to leave you?”
“I was certain.” She smiled just a little.
“How? Because you were sure I loved you? Because you understand me so well?” He was honestly curious.
She nodded. “Yes. And a… couple of other things.”
“What things?” Rory pulled her down beside him on a garden bench.
“For one…” She rubbed her nose in that rueful little way that fascinated him oddly. “Rory, do you remember that first day?”
“Here at the Hall? Of course.”
“When we were together in the upstairs hallway, and again when we waltzed together that night, you saw some Rebel soldiers and their ladies. Remember?”
�
�I remember. In the ballroom, they waltzed with us.”
“Yes. Well… I caught a glimpse of them upstairs, but during the waltz…”
“What're you trying to tell me?” he asked— but knew.
“They were ghosts, Rory. In the ballroom, no one but you saw them.”
He'd learned to accept the ghostly presences of Jasmine Hall, and this latest addition hardly surprised him. “All right. And so?”
“I looked up a few of the old legends and ghost stories in the Hall book that night. And according to legend, only those who'll live their lives at the Hall will see the soldiers and their brides. The legend also says that if they dance the midnight waltz with an engaged couple, they're expressing approval of the union.”
“So since I saw the soldiers, you knew I'd live at the Hall?”
“I thought it was a good bet.”
“You saw them, too, you said.”
“Vaguely. Hazily. But you instantly assumed you were looking at guests, so you saw them clearly. Darling, I've known since that night that you'd live in the Hall; I just wasn't sure that I would.”
“Is that why you led me such a merry chase, milady?”
“You know why. I was convinced I'd lose both you and my home no matter what happened. When we took that suicidal jump that night, I was shocked into realizing I had to trust you… because I loved you too much not to.”
He lifted her hand briefly to his lips. “So a legend about ghostly soldiers made you pretty sure I wouldn't leave you?”
“Pretty sure.”
“You said there were a couple of things?”
“Well, the other thing was my Clairmont blood.”
“I'm going to hate myself for asking this, I know, but what did that have to do with it?”
Banner smiled. “Darling, the Clairmonts have been many things, but they've never been quitters. Once you—uh—caught me, I wasn't about to let you go.”