As if he didn’t hear her, he flung his riding gloves to the grass and jerked off his jacket. He sat down with his back against the tree and drew one leg up at the knee, resting his arm across it. In a voice like the crack of a whiplash, he said, “I told you to get down off that horse.”
Whitney reluctantly did as she was bidden and slid awkwardly down from Khan, stepped onto the boulder next to her, then gingerly to the ground. She waited there beside her horse, enduring the icy blast of his gaze. It dawned on her that he was striving for control of his anger, and Whitney prayed he would gain it. His eyes raked over her, riveting on a spot just below her right hand. Following his stare, Whitney realized she still held the crop. It slid from her numbed fingers.
“I believe there are several things which you enjoy as much as riding,” he remarked with scathing sarcasm.
Whitney nervously clenched and unclenched her hands.
“Come, come, don’t be shy,” he prodded in a soft, menacing voice. “You’re a young woman of many pleasures—you enjoyed humbling me into an apology, did you not?”
Whitney nodded, then winced at the blaze of fury her answer ignited in his hard features. Quickly she tried to shake her head to cover the admission she’d just made.
“No, don’t deny it. You enjoyed it tremendously. And I think we can assume that besides riding and apologies, you also enjoy using the crop. Correct?”
How could she answer these questions? Whitney thought frantically. She flicked a glance at Khan, longing to flee.
In a silky, dangerous voice, he warned, “Don’t try it.”
Whitney stayed where she was. She didn’t think she could get away, knew, in fact, that if she tried, she’d only enrage him further. Besides, if she didn’t let him vent his wrath now, he’d undoubtedly go to her father. She steeled herself to endure the rest of his verbal assault.
“You wanted us to have something in common if we were going to be friends. You wanted us to enjoy the same things, didn’t you?”
Whitney swallowed convulsively and nodded.
“Pick up the crop!” he clipped.
Cold fear raced down Whitney’s spine, and her pulse accelerated wildly. In all her life, she’d never encountered such controlled, purposeful rage. She bent down and picked up the crop with shaking fingers.
“Bring it to me,” he rapped. Whitney froze at the sudden, blinding realization of what he intended.
She frantically considered her choice: physical punishment meted out by this man whom she despised, or the mental anguish of reopening old hostilities with her father. Her choice was really no choice at all.
Rather than give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her quaking fear, Whitney reverted to an old girlhood habit of putting her chin up and assuming an appearance of aloof indifference. Haughtily, she walked over and held the crop out to him like a queen bestowing the sword of knighthood, her disdainful green eyes clashing with his glacial gray ones.
“Since you enjoy apologies and using the crop,” he snapped, “we’ll share those amusements, only I will use the crop this time, and you will do the apologizing.” He nodded curtly at his lap.
Whitney’s gaze slid unwillingly to the black riding crop in his hand, then jerked back to his tanned face, but she did not deign to reply. Glaring at him in stiff hatred, she lowered herself into the humiliating position. His hard thighs pressed against her churning stomach; a beetle scurried through the blades of grass inches from her nose, and she wondered wildly how much protection her riding habit would afford.
“I will stop when you apologize. Not before,” Clayton warned, and waited for her to blurt out an apology. Instead, she said nothing, and Clayton became so incensed by her stubborn silence and haughty indifference that he actually raised his arm. The crop whined through the air before he realized what he was doing, and he flung it away at the last possible moment, but not before her body tensed for the blow and a strangled cry wrenched from her throat. Disgusted with himself and with her, he grasped her roughly by the shoulders and turned her in his arms to sit across his lap.
Whitney glared at him through a haze of wrathful tears, furious for having revealed those small, humiliating signs of fear a moment before he threw the crop aside. “I hate you!” she choked.
“For what?” he demanded tersely.
Unable to conjure an instantaneous and suitably scathing reply at that moment, Whitney tore her eyes from his. She stared fixedly at Dangerous Crossing, whose satin blackness was now splashed with huge, sweaty white patches, and guilt began to overcome her self-righteous fury. It was a miracle that the horse hadn’t injured himself, that the rider had been expert enough to stay on him, and wise enough to continue riding him instead of returning him to the stable. It was a double miracle that both horse and rider hadn’t been seriously injured. Tears of shame and relief gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she swiped them away, but he saw the gesture and knew what she was doing.
“Look at me,” he ordered in a far gentler tone.
“No!” Whitney retorted. “If I do, I’ll scratch your eyes out, so help me!” Despite her bravado, she realized that Clayton wasn’t going to let her go until she apologized, and since she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, she said tonelessly, “I never meant to hit the horse, I meant to hit you. But either way, it was an irresponsible and dangerous act, as well as a childish one.”
“Thank you for that,” he said quietly.
It registered on Whitney that there was neither triumph nor satisfaction in his tone, and she glanced at him in disbelief. Whenever she had apologized to her father, he had listened and then launched into a fresh tirade about her misconduct, and for some reason, she had expected much the same from Clayton. “Thank you for the apology,” he said again, as if he sensed her confusion.
To be guilty of a grave wrong, to feel remorse and then be forgiven, was a sequence of events totally missing from Whitney’s childhood experience. Shaken by the strange poignancy of the moment, she searched his face, and then she looked away. But his understanding and forgiveness had already accomplished what his threats and intimidation had failed to do: Tears of shame and remorse were sliding down her cheeks in a hot, steady stream that couldn’t be hidden or stopped.
She tried to pull away and get up, but his arms tightened, and his hand lifted to hold her face pressed to his chest. As if he were soothing a child, he began to stroke her hair, and the unexpected tenderness of that gesture made her cry even harder. She cried until her tears had soaked the front of his shirt and she finally got her wayward emotions under control. “Why do you hate me, little one?” he asked gently.
Caught off balance by the endearment as well as his tone, Whitney gave a blunt, teary answer. “Because there’s something about you that makes me behave like a raving lunatic.”
To her amazement, he muffled a laugh, then his hand touched her chin, tipping her face up to his. His gray eyes were warm with approval as they smiled into hers, and suddenly, unaccountably, Whitney felt as if they were the best, the closest, of friends—as if there was some special bond between them now. The feeling stunned her, then surged through her, sweeping everything away in its path. “I’m terribly sorry for coercing you into riding Dangerous Crossing and for . . .”
“No more,” he interrupted softly. “It’s forgotten.”
Whitney knew, as he slowly bent his head to her, that he was going to kiss her, but instead of drawing away she shyly lifted her face and met him halfway, somehow seeking proof of forgiveness. His lips came down to caress hers in a long, tender, undemanding kiss.
Even when the kiss deepened and her lips were being sensually molded to his, Whitney knew he would let her pull away if she tried. Without realizing what she was doing, her hands crept up his chest, twining around his neck, and everything changed.
His hands tugged the scarf loose from her hair and tangled in the luxuriant tresses. Tenderly cupping her face between both his hands, he gazed down into her melting green e
yes. “My God, you are sweet,” he whispered. Whitney’s heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer as he slowly, deliberately buried his lips in her once again. He kissed her long and lingeringly, slow, compelling kisses that made her head swim. His tongue flicked over her lips teasing at first—then urging, insisting that she part them and, the moment she did, plunging inside to intimately explore her mouth while his hands moved down her back and beneath her hips, lifting her up and tighter to him.
Jolt after jolt of wild sensation rocketed through Whitney from her neck to her knees, leaving her trembling violently and clinging to him. The world tilted as he twisted her halfway around to lie in the grass beside him, wrapped in his strong arms. He leaned over her, and Whitney shook her head in feeble protest: “We can’t . . .”
His mouth came down hard on hers, silencing her objection, taking her lips in a fierce, devouring kiss. He parted her lips, teasing and tormenting her with his tongue as it plunged gently, then retreated, until Whitney, in a fever of longing, touched her own tongue to his lips.
He groaned and crushed her tighter to the hard length of his body, drawing her tongue into his mouth and caressing it with his own. When his mouth left hers it was to explore her ear before tracing its way across her cheek and covering her lips again. His hand left a trail of glowing warmth as it slid down her throat, across her breasts, and he began unfastening her thin shirt, seeking the soft swells beneath.
The touch of his strong fingers on her naked flesh penetrated Whitney’s passion-drugged senses, jerking her back to reality. Frantically, she shook her head, trying to tear her mouth from his as he pulled down her chemise, baring her swelling breasts to his hand.
“Don’t,” he commanded in a throbbing whisper, deepening the wildly consuming kiss while his hand fondled her breasts, pushing them upward, teasing the sensitive nipples until they stood erect and proud against his palm.
And then, without warning, he stopped.
Kissed and caressed into dazed insensibility, Whitney watched his smoldering gaze lift from her ivory breasts to her face. “If we don’t stop now, little one,” he murmured in an odd, strained voice, “I’m going to be too caught up in finishing what I began, to turn back.” Bending his head, he kissed the top of each soft breast before reluctantly drawing up her chemise.
Lying beside her, propped up on an elbow, Clayton touched her cheek with a forefinger, lightly tracing the elegant curve of her cheekbone. He adored her spirit, her freshness; she was warmth and awakening passion, ready to be taken—as the throbbing ache in his loins reminded him. She was everything he had known she would be and much, much more: Headstrong, sweet, fiery-tempered, impertinent and witty . . . a treasure of exciting contrasts. His treasure!
Whitney basked in the warmth of his slow, lazy smile and reached up, laying her hand against his hard chest. He covered her hand with his, holding it pressed against his shirt over the steady thudding of his heart.
Dreamily, she heard the sound of the early fall day drifting about them. A squirrel skittered up a tree with a nut to be stored for the winter. Crickets serenaded in hoarse harmony. One of the horses stamped fitfully. Whitney lay there, wondering why she’d never really noticed how extraordinarily handsome he was.
His next words brought her floating spirit plummeting back to earth: “It’s time to go—there’ll be explanations due everyone as it is.” He chuckled at the look of disappointment that crossed her lovely forehead and pressed a bold kiss on the peak of her breast. “Brazen little hussy!” he teased.
“Of course,” Whitney said, surging to her feet, her face flushed with mortification at being called—correctly—a brazen hussy. With clumsy hands she tried to restore order to her hair. “We—We should have left long ago.”
Clayton reached for her but she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away. As she started to climb on her horse, he caught her at the waist and drew her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Little one,” he chuckled, nuzzling her neck, “there will be many times to come when I will hold you much longer, and much closer.” Soothingly, he added, “I promise.”
Whitney could hardly believe her ears! After calling her a brazen hussy, he had sympathetically promised to provide further intimacies to satiate her lust! How could she have forgotten how utterly amoral, how supremely conceited he was? She pulled away and glanced at him over her shoulder. With as much disdain as she could muster in her humiliated confusion, she said, “Do you think so?”
Clayton’s grin was tigerish. “Indeed I do.”
“Don’t depend on it,” she said, turning her face away and gathering Khan’s reins. He lifted her effortlessly into the sidesaddle and let his hand boldly rest on her thigh. Whitney’s voice shook as she asked, “Where is the picnic?”
“At the little clearing between Sevarin’s place and mine,” he replied, swinging up onto Dangerous Crossing’s back.
More than anything, Whitney wanted to gallop Khan away, to put as much distance between herself and Clayton Westland as possible. At the same time, she wanted to conceal how deeply she was hurt. So, with brittle gaiety, she called, “See you there,” and turned Khan into a tight circle, urging him into a lunging gallop. She rode with her hair tossing wildly behind her, letting the wind cool her flushed face.
She could have wept with shame. “Brazen little hussy” he’d called her, and hussy she’d been! Letting him kiss her in such a way—and oh, God, touch her like that. And that bastard thought he was rewarding her by promising to hold her much closer and much longer in the future! Where was her pride, her sense of right and wrong, to have allowed him such liberties? She felt like such a horrid fool for lying there desiring him. And he had known exactly how she felt. He was undoubtedly an expert at making women desire him.
In the distance ahead the picnickers came into view, their gaily colored garments dotting the gently rolling hillside behind them. Even from so far away, Whitney could almost pick out Paul’s silhouette. Paul! She groaned aloud thinking of how he would despise her if he ever learned what had just happened at the stream. She’d be ruined in Paul’s eyes. In everyone’s eyes.
Whitney glanced behind her and saw that Clayton was about ten lengths away. In a sudden frenzy to get to the picnic as quickly as possible, without appearing to be fleeing in panic, Whitney raised her crop in a gesture of challenge and called over her shoulder, “Shall we?”
“If you think you have a chance,” Clayton laughed, then shouted, “I’ll give you ten lengths. Go ahead.”
Whitney considered rejecting his offer of a handicap, but decided that where he was concerned, winning by any means available was acceptable. Leaning forward over Khan’s neck, she tapped him with her heel, and he bolted forward. His strides lengthened out, and the ground flew by beneath her.
As she neared the picnickers, Whitney looked over her shoulder to see what kind of a lead she was holding. Disgust mingled with surprise, for the stallion had gained back nine of the ten paces. For a few seconds, Whitney thought she was still going to win, but at the very last moment, the stallion closed the gap and finished a nose in front of Khan.
The horses leapt about beneath them as a groom ran forward to take the reins, then help her dismount. Whitney settled her skirts and, pretending complete indifference to Clayton’s existence, started to walk past him.
He leaned down from his horse and chucked her familiarly under the chin. “I won.” He grinned.
The groom, who had bent to examine Khan’s right front foot, glanced up and politely said, “The lady’s horse was running with a stone in his hoof, sir.”
Whitney was about to pounce on that excuse, but Paul’s arrival interrupted her. “Where the deuce have you two been?”
“We had some trouble with the stallion,” Clayton calmly replied as he dismounted.
Paul glanced skeptically from the docile black horse to Whitney’s flushed, angry face. “I was worried about you,” he said.
“Were you? There was no need
,” Whitney murmured, positive she looked as guilty as she felt.
He led her over to a light blue blanket, seated her beside Emily and Michael Archibald, then sat down next to her, with Elizabeth and Peter across from them.
Clayton accepted a glass of wine from a servant and sauntered over to the blanket directly across from theirs, seating himself beside Margaret Merryton and another couple. Whitney saw the bright smile that Margaret beamed on him as he settled beside her. If Margaret’s eyes weren’t perpetually narrowed with malice, Whitney thought, she would be a very pretty girl. Right now, however, the hazel eyes were slits of hatred as they turned toward Whitney. “If you were racing, you lost, Whitney.” She smirked.
“We were, and she did,” Clayton confirmed promptly, his laughing gaze daring Whitney to deny it.
“In the first place, my horse had a stone in his hoof,” Whitney retorted. “Secondly, if I’d been riding the stallion, I think I’d have won by a greater margin.”
“If you’d been riding that stallion, young lady, we’d be summoning your relatives to your bedside,” he contradicted, grinning.
“Mr. Westland,” Whitney said, “I could handle that stallion and get a better performance from him than you did.”
“If you think so, I’ll ride one of my own horses, and you may test your skill with the stallion any time you want a rematch.”
Goaded by the mocking amusement in his eyes, Whitney snatched up the gauntlet of challenge. “A flat course,” she specified. “No high jumps. The stallion knows nothing about jumping yet.”
“He did rather well in clearing several fences today, as I recall,” Clayton reminded her dryly. “However, it will be as you wish. You choose the course.”
“Aren’t you taking on a little more than you can handle?” Paul asked, his forehead furrowed in concern.
Whitney tossed a haughty glance at Clayton and said with more conviction than she really felt. “Certainly not. I’ll win easily.”