Christie (7 page)

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 regular 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?

All of a sudden, she brightened as an idea came to her. Slowly, a pleased expression crossed her face and a smug little smile curved her lips upward. Why not? If she hurried, the timing would be just about perfect. With a quick skip, she scurried down the path that would take her back to the house, thoughts of sweet revenge tumbling madly about in her brain.

Laurette Mayfield drew her lips into a sensual smile as she accepted the glass of sherry Garrett handed her. Her black cloak lay flung across the Queen Anne armchair, just inside the door where Garrett had removed it, and now, as she took a slow step toward him, wearing a clinging, low-cut dressing gown of scarlet satin, her voice broke into a low, throaty laugh.

"I had to hide this gown at the bottom of my valise and then go through all sorts of mechanics to keep the Trevellyans' maid from helping me unpack it! Oh, but it feels good to be wearing a color besides black!"

She looked Garrett silently in the eye for a moment. "You approve?"

Garrett sipped his brandy. He ran his naked gaze deliberately over her curving body, taking his time as he did so. "If you're asking for approval of your breaking of the mourning code, you'll get none
from me—nor any disapproval either. Making moral judgments of others' actions just isn't my style. But if you're wondering whether I approve of how you look in that scarlet piece of finery, well, that's another matter," he said, setting down his brandy as he stepped closer to her.

Laurette's breathing quickened as she looked up at him, taking in the towering figure he presented, sensing the barely controlled sexuality that emanated from him. Quickly she set her glass down on a small stand nearby, just in time to feel his arms draw her into a crushing embrace!

His lips seared hers in a demanding kiss that she at once began to return, tongue meeting tongue, as each practiced knowledgeably the age-old rituals of enticement and foreplay. Garrett's fingers moved swiftly to untie the scarlet ribbons and sash that held her gown together, and in seconds it was about their feet. Hotly and expertly, his hands moved over the voluptuous mounds of her coral-tipped breasts, bringing them to immediate peaked excitement. When his mouth moved to her throat, he heard her begin to make low, animal-like noises. Then he felt her hand reaching down for the bulge at the front of his breeches, while at the same time he felt her small white teeth sink into the flesh at his chest. Sweeping one large hand down over her creamy buttocks, he let its fingers come to rest briefly in the wet warmth of the nest below before sliding his hand still further down the backs of her thighs and then around and behind her knees to catch her up and carry her to the bed.

Laurette had begun to writhe sinuously in his
arms, her tongue darting feverishly between his teeth as his mouth once again covered hers.

Laying her on the bed, Garrett had just removed his shirt when a loud knock at the door echoed in the quiet chamber.

Startled out of her sensual reverie, Laurette grasped at the silken coverlet, pulling it up around her as she whispered fiercely, the words coming out more like a hiss than a whisper.

" 'S'blood! Who should that be! I thought you said we'd be completely private!"

"And so should we be," returned Garrett, grabbing his robe from a nearby hook as he motioned for her to hide under the coverlet and be still.

Quickly, he crossed to the door and called, "Yes
what is it?"

"Returning your laundry, sir," came the muffled reply.

Garrett couldn't believe his ears, but he gave voice to his anger that now threatened to erupt in full force.

"Laundry! Who in hell brings laundry at this time of night?" he growled, throwing open the door to reveal the culprit.

Christie Trevellyan stood demurely before him in the moonlight, with one slender arm held up ceremoniously before her as she presented him with the shirt he had lent her the day of the swimming episode. There was a wide, devilish grin on her face as she looked at him, self-delight clearly evident on all her features. When she spoke, her tones were irately silky and smooth, her manner insinuating.

"Oh, Garrett, I'm so terribly sorry to be intruding at this late hour, but I simply
had
to return the shirt you lent me before Father found out I had it. It would never do for a gentleman's shirt to be found in the chambers of a young lady, you see. Thank you ever so much for its use, though. I would have been practically
naked
without it! It shows you were gentleman enough to partly amend the damage you did, sir!"

Then, smiling her sweetest smile at him, she bade him good night, turned on one dainty heel, and made her way blithely back to the house.

As he watched her graceful form disappear in the darkness, Garrett's first reaction was one of speechless anger. Then, as he closed the door, the enormity of her brazenly clever ploy stuck him; somehow she had known Laurette was here! Throwing his head back, he roared with laughter. Little Christie had bested him in rare form, and he would be the last to let the wit of her jest go unappreciated. The wench had even more spirit than he'd allotted her, and amid his laughter he made a mental note not to underestimate her in the future!

Then, still chuckling, he turned to find a fully reclothed Laurette reaching for her cloak. Frowning, he grasped her forearm and turned her toward him.

"Leaving so soon, my lady? And with the evening's pleasures just barely tasted?"

"Take your lusty, child-seducing hands off me, Garrett. There will be no more pleasures tonight!" spat Laurette.

"Not so fast, dear widow," warned Garrett. "The wench is gone—will not return. What possible
obstacle can you now see—?"

"What possible obstacle!" hissed Laurette. "You lure me here, at peril of my reputation, stand idly by while I crouch under bedclothes in uncertain indignity as the latest tart you've bedded knocks at your door; then you laugh in my face as she presents the evidence of your recent exploits under my very nose, and you expect me to remain and spread my thighs for you as if 'twere no 'possible obstacle? Stand aside, Sir Rut! I return to my chamber!"

Garrett's temper rose in earnest now. He almost began, for a second, to explain the nature of the jest to her, but then thought better of it. He owed explanations to no woman! Savagely, he grasped her by the shoulders and drew her against him, his tone menacing as he spoke.

"You will go when, and if, I permit you to go, lady! And don't speak to me of lures to entice you to my bed. You came here of your own accord, and I acceded. Now you are here—so be it. And now, I desire you to stay!"

Brutally, he took her surprised mouth with his, forcing her lips apart, bruising them with his own. Laurette resisted for a moment, before finding herself going weak at the knees as desire replaced anger, and in a moment she found herself returning his kiss with renewed passion and warmth.

"Oh, Garrett," she breathed, "I'll make you forget the Trevellyan slut. You need a woman in your life, not a skinny-hipped child like that. I can warm your sheets handsomely over many a long winter's night."