Rebel Waltz, Page 5

  FOUR

  FROM THE VANTAGE point of the back of a tall gray Thoroughbred, Rory watched riders assembling for the hunt. As Banner had predicted, most of the guests had seemed a bit sheepish at breakfast, but they were back on balance now, and the Grand Old South was once more at the forefront of things.

  Currier and Ives would have loved the scene.

  Yelping beagles wandered restlessly among the horses, never too far away from the redheaded middle-aged man Banner had introduced as Scottie; he was clearly adored by all the animals. Ladies in colorful riding habits coped easily with troublesome sidesaddles and spirited horses. Gentlemen talked and laughed.

  In the background were the barns, three long ones surrounding an open area where the horses and riders were milling about. The stabling was adequate, Rory thought musingly, for all the horses—those belonging to Jasmine Hall and those sent here days ago by the guests who wanted to ride their own. Rory's experienced eye detected pure- blooded, expensive Thoroughbreds comprising those animals sporting the red brow-band on their bridles that proclaimed them as belonging to the Hall. His own gray gelding was as sleek and well trained as any he'd seen in major show-rings.

  Then his attention was caught once more by the spectacle of Jasmine Hall turned out for the hunt.

  “Amazing, isn't it?” Banner had ridden her black gelding up beside Rory and now controlled his prancing with an experienced hand. “You'd think somebody had turned back the clock.”

  “You'd think,” he agreed, glancing once more at the scene around them and then gazing at her. “How d'you manage the sidesaddle?”

  She laughed. “It's easy once you've learned how. Balance is everything.”

  “I can imagine. Does that brute realize he's carrying a lady?”

  Banner frowned at him and bent forward to stroke the glossy black neck of her mount. “Don't call El Cid a brute. I raised him and trained him myself.”

  Rory watched the huge horse prance in place as though he were performing for judges in a dressage event, noting that Banner seemed as comfortable as she would have been on solid ground. “El Cid? He was a Spanish national hero, wasn't he?”

  “Uh-huh. But it's the literal meaning of the name that I love—‘the lord.’ Fits, doesn't it?”

  “He is lordly,” Rory admitted. “And what's mine called?”

  Banner smiled serenely at him. “Shadow.”

  He looked at her suspiciously, but Banner maintained an innocent expression. Rory sighed. “Right. I really don't know if I want to hear the answer, but—will any of the Hall… uh, spirits ride today?”

  “I've never seen any,” she responded gravely.

  “That doesn't comfort me.”

  Banner laughed suddenly. “If you see one, just tip your hat in passing.”

  “You should ask one of ‘em to sit for you,” he told her firmly. “I doubt that any other artist has captured a ghost—from the flesh, so to speak.”

  Before she could respond, Scottie signaled the beginning of the hunt, his long horn echoing in the morning air. The dogs moved toward the meadow, casting about for the scent, and almost instantly gave tongue in their loud, eerily plaintive voices.

  The hunt was on.

  Rory had ridden all his life, and he was familiar with steeplechase-type courses made hazardous by wicked jumps and a fast and constant pace, but he had never experienced an honest-to-goodness hunt.

  His respect for these apparently leisurely ladies and gentlemen increased enormously as the morning wore on. They handled their mounts easily, and all rode with the certain comfort of those almost literally born in the saddle. Not a single guest was unseated—and the jumps were wicked.

  Banner and Jake, Rory noticed, kept right in the thick of things. It was those two, she on her El Cid and her grandfather on a deep-chested, long-legged white gelding, who showed their guests the way over brush, rail, and water. It might have been an amiable competition between them or merely the hard- riding nature of their heritage; whatever the reason, they were nearly always neck-and-neck in the lead.

  The false trail led them for miles over the countryside, across streams and meadows and through forests, and it wasn't until they had experienced the “kill” and watched the hounds leashed at the base of a large tree where a stuffed fox glared mockingly down on them that Rory was able to come up alongside Banner. All the riders had turned their mounts back toward Jasmine Hall at a leisurely pace.

  “That,” Rory said definitely, “was something to remember.”

  Cheeks flushed and green eyes merry, Banner nodded agreement. “There are hunt clubs around here that run hunts from time to time, but we're the only ones who're costumed. It adds something, doesn't it?”

  “It does that.” He looked over their horses, noting the damp sheen of sweat but also aware that neither animal—clearly well conditioned— was overly tired. “Do we have time to ride over more of the property, or should you return with your guests?”

  Abruptly, the light left her eyes. “No, I don't have to get back right away. I can show you the southern section, at least. This way.” She turned El Cid away from the rest of the horses, heading in a direction the hunt hadn't covered.

  Rory was silently cursing himself. He brought Shadow alongside her horse again. “Banner, I'm sorry.”

  She sent him a quick glance. “It's all right; Jake can take care of the guests.”

  “That isn't what I meant, and you know it.” He sighed. “You were so happy about the hunt, and I had to spoil your pleasure by reminding you that I came here to look the place over. I'm sorry.”

  The horses were walking, and Banner had little need to pay close attention to her riding; still, she didn't look at him. “Well, it's the reason you're here. And… Jake's serious this time.” She smiled faintly. “It probably isn't good salesmanship—by Jake's way of thinking—to tell you that, but it's true.”

  He was silent for a moment. “D'you have to sell?” It was, perhaps, spiking his own guns, since he wanted the place, but Rory was troubled by her obvious grief at losing Jasmine Hall.

  Banner shrugged. “We can't afford to keep it in prime condition; you know what restoration and maintenance cost these days. It's either turn the place over to a historical society or sell.”

  “And it'll kill you to have to leave here.” It wasn't a question, and the rough tone told her more, perhaps, than he'd intended.

  She stared straight ahead between Cid's alert ears. “I'll survive.”

  There was silence for a while, broken only by morning sounds and the muffled thuds of hooves. Rory saw the land they rode through, but he didn't really look at it. He was peculiarly conscious of the costume he wore and of the costumed lady by his side, bemusedly aware that while his instincts might have sparked action because they were alone, the manners curiously imposed by the costumes forbade it.

  He would, he realized, be glad when the costumes were packed away for—what? Next year? Or would there be a next year for this hunt?

  Shunting the thought aside, he asked abruptly, “Is Jake your only family?”

  “He is now. My father was killed in a car accident when I was just a child. Mother died ten years ago. There are aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered around the country, but it's just been Jake and me for years.”

  “What are your future plans if the Hall is sold?” He hated to keep reminding her, but he was more than a little interested in anything that had to do with Banner's future.

  She sent him a sudden look that was surprise overlaid by sadness. “It's funny, but I haven't thought that far ahead. I doubt that Jake has either. We were both born here; there's always been the Hall for us.” Then she shrugged, and her voice lightened with a clear effort. “I suppose we'll buy a small place somewhere with a bit of land; neither of us could bear living in a city or even in an apartment. But that isn't your problem, Rory,” she finished firmly.

  “Isn't it?” He stared straight ahead, suddenly angry about the entire situation. He wanted the Hal
l, but not at the price of depriving Banner and Jake of a much-loved home; and knowing that they had no choice but to sell to someone helped not one bit. He was angry because the costumed ball and hunt would inevitably become nothing more than a sliver of local history; the tightly-knit neighborhood here would hardly care to see the Hall family tradition turned into little more than an interesting game for tourists-guests. He was angry because, for the first time, a piece of property seemed like a home to him rather than a money- making proposition, and the thought of careless tourists tramping through its gracious halls actually sickened him. And he was angry because he very badly wanted to become a part of Banner's life—and the Hall loomed between them. If he bought the plantation, would he always be the man who'd taken away her home, however gently he managed the transaction? Even if he kept the place for his own home—an idea that appealed strongly to him, however impractical it might be—it would no longer belong to Banner's family. And if he decided not to buy, it would only force Jake either to offer it to someone else, someone with no scruples or interest in the family, or to turn it over to a historical society.

  It was a no-win situation.

  Banner knew that he was angry; the emotion was obvious from his grim expression and troubled eyes. And because she was slowly getting to know this man, she understood the source of his anger. His feeling for these old plantations and his deepening interest in this particular family held him trapped in an unenviable position. He wasn't the type of man to walk away from the problem, to disassociate himself from the future of Jasmine Hall just so that he wouldn't be responsible for whatever happened.

  Quietly, she said, “You want the Hall. You don't have to see the rest of the property, do you?”

  Rory sighed, and his voice was rough when he answered. “I want the Hall. But I don't want anything to change. Not for the Hall—and not for you and Jake. I want there to be a ball and a hunt every year, where the neighbors revert and celebrate the glory of the Grand Old South. I want to watch Southern gents threatening to duel in the garden and I want to listen to debates on the presidency of Mr. Lincoln. I want to know that there's still a traditional midnight waltz at Jasmine Hall.”

  Banner swallowed hard, almost unbearably moved by the muted passion in his deep voice. He was not giving lip service to what he thought she wanted to hear; he felt the same aching love for this very special home of hers that she did. It came to her then that only a special man with deep sensitivity could have become so very involved so quickly.

  For the first time, she wanted him to have the Hall. He would take care of her home if she couldn't do it herself.

  She wasn't aware that the horses had responded to tense hands on their reins by halting, until she looked around. They were standing at the edge of a clearing in the woods where a small brook murmured softly to itself in the shaded quiet. Banner forced herself to ignore her tight throat and to speak briskly.

  “Then you'll buy the place, of course. Unless Jake's price is totally outrageous. You'll buy the place,” she repeated softly, trying to accustom herself to the sound of that. “Change is a part of life, Rory; you aren't responsible for the fact that Jake's and my lives have to change.”

  “Am I not?” His voice was grim. “Then how will you feel, Banner, after I've taken your home away from you? How will you feel about me?”

  Banner signaled El Cid to move forward, and as the horse responded obediently, she tried to answer him. “I don't know. But I'm not a child, Rory; I know someone has to buy the Hall. I'd— rather it was you. And… that's all.”

  He guided his horse to follow as she turned back toward the house, realizing that she'd given him the only answer she could at this point. But he knew, with a sinking feeling, what her eventual answer would be. Jasmine Hall was not a house, and not merely a home; it was a part of Banner. And no matter how gracious this innately Southern lady would be over the loss of that, it would never be forgotten.

  She would forgive him for what he would have to do to her. But she would never be able to forget.

  The merry lunch was over. The guests were gone, the horses stabled for a night's rest before those belonging to the guests would be trailered or ridden home. Banner had vanished to her room, silent, troubled, withdrawn. And Rory changed from his costume before leaving his own, still- scented room.

  He wandered for a while, restless, his mind working keenly but finding no solution. He heard Jake's voice once and deliberately took a hallway angling away from that sound; he didn't want to talk to the older man just yet.

  He wanted to think.

  Rory knew now why the idea of depriving Banner of a home was so painful to him. He had known since he'd heard the jealousy in his own voice that morning when he'd been confronted with what he'd feared to be a rival. It had been a shock to him to realize what he felt for Banner was much more than simple desire.

  Dear God, so quickly? He didn't know why it had happened—not specifically. If asked, he could only have pointed to absurd little things brought into focus by his bemused mind. The vulnerable little quiver of her lower lip. The way she rubbed her nose in a rueful, unconscious gesture. The drawling lilt in her voice. The sight of a Southern lady riding sidesaddle on a prancing horse named El Cid.

  Unseeing, Rory stopped in the middle of the hallway, his gaze fixed absently on a painting hanging on the wall. He couldn't, he knew, bear to be the man who took her home away from her. Nor could he disclaim responsibility and walk away, leaving her future and that of Jasmine Hall unresolved. He wanted to be a part of her future, but would she want that after losing her home?

  She didn't want to be a part of a package deal. Her pride. He couldn't blame her for that. What would she say if he said, “Marry me and live with me here at the Hall”?

  She could say any number of things. She could attribute the proposal to a guilty conscience— and say no. She could think that he'd chosen to forego his mother's advice and mix business and pleasure—and say no. She could decide quite realistically that she hardly knew him—and say no. She could wear her pride like her name and vanish from his life—without even saying no.

  Rory swore softly, tonelessly. Boxed in, trapped. Damned, no matter what he did. After a long moment, his unseeing gaze sharpened. His mind churned violently, then settled down. Rap idly, he considered his sudden thought. Would it work? Maybe. It was a chance. His one chance.

  He swung around and went quickly down the hall, heading for the front door. Couldn't use the phone here. Might be overheard, and it wouldn't do to let anyone in on his idea until he was sure it would work. She'd probably be mad as hell even if it did work—at first, anyway.

  He'd have to chance it.

  “Rory?” Jake, coming out of the library, was clearly startled to see his guest making for the front door as if he were being chased by something large and carnivorous.

  “I have to go to town for something,” Rory explained rapidly without explaining a thing and not pausing for a reply.

  Jake stared rather blankly at the door as it closed behind his guest. His keen eyes cleared after a moment. “Wonder what that boy's up to?” he murmured to himself thoughtfully.

  “Are you talking to me, Jake?” Banner was coming down the stairs.

  “Hmmm?” He looked at her. “Oh—no, lass. To myself.” Having already been on the receiving end of a lecture from Rory on the merits of keeping his nose out of other people's business in general and his granddaughter's in particular, Jake decided to keep his speculation to himself. He'd seen which way the wind blew, and was content to allow the younger man to manage his own affairs. It would most likely be very interesting—to say the least.

  “Where's Rory?” she asked lightly.

  “He had to go to town for something,” Jake reported faithfully. “I'm sure he'll be back soon.”

  Banner was too preoccupied to notice her grandfather's overly innocent tone; her mind was on something else. “Jake, this morning Rory mentioned a slight problem with his room.”

&
nbsp; “Which is?”

  She leaned against the newel post and stared at him wryly. “The scent of jasmine. He thinks he may be allergic to it.”

  “The scent of— Oh. Well, well.”

  “It's not funny, Jake.”

  “Tell Sarah that.”

  “I'm more interested in what we're going to tell Rory. How am I going to explain to him about Mother? Especially when I don't know what she's up to.”

  “She's obviously keeping an eye on him.”

  “But why?”

  Jake looked at her guilelessly. “Could be she's interested because he wants the Hall.”

  “I suppose.” Banner was faintly dissatisfied, but resigned. “Anyway, what do I tell Rory?”

  “The truth.”

  “Jake, I've told him about the blond man and I've mentioned that there are others. He isn't going to be happy when I explain that my mother—who happens to be a ghost—is visiting him and drenching his room with the jasmine scent.”

  The old man shrugged and spread his hands helplessly. “Then just ignore the subject and hope it doesn't come up again,” he suggested.

  “You're a lot of help.”

  “Sorry.”

  Banner shelved the problem for the time being and headed for her cottage studio. She had a great many things on her mind, and work had always helped her to think. However, once in her studio with brush and palette in hand, she found that her work in progress did little to distract her from thinking about Rory.

  Twenty-four hours, and the man was becoming an obsession with her.

  She frowned at the portrait of a blond gentleman. Rory had assumed the painting to be of her “friend.” When he had taken a closer look, he'd seen only similarities between it and himself.

  But the portrait was of Rory. It was he, and she'd never laid eyes on him when she'd begun it.

  Now, however, she found herself deliberately and consciously painting from her mental image of Rory. And from more than her mental image. She tried to paint blond hair that was silky soft to the touch. She tried to paint the feeling of strong arms beneath smooth material. She tried to convey that firm, curved lips felt like warm satin …