Defiant Angel (13 page)

"This course is, how you English say? Jolly Good!"

She asked, "Really?"

"His Grace had it set in the western acreage . . . Your escort will show you the way."

"I don't require an escort." Tiffany looped the reins between her pinky and ring finger, slackening on her hold.

Claude, shaking his head quickly, insisted, "Mademoiselle, His Grace's orders are explicit. You are to have an escort."

Tiffany had had enough of
His Grace's
orders. She smiled sweetly down at Claude. "My dear man--" her voice held a note of challenge "--prove I need an escort!" She nudged an eager Shalimar into a gallop, shouting over her shoulder, "By keeping up with me!"

Startled, but not befuddled, Claude took note of her easterly direction. Springing into action, he shouted for the grooms to saddle up and follow her. Claude stomped angrily up and down, threatening them with a long tour of stall mucking if she wasn't found.

A half hour later, Clinton strolled to the stables, having heard from a much-exhausted Leavit that Lady Tiffany had gone riding. Leavit had informed Clinton that his family had served the Chablisiennes for five generations, and most had been born and died in their service, a tradition that, until today, Leavit had hoped to carry on. Clinton recalled the astonished look Leavit gave him when he laughed heartily over Tiffany's referral to the duke's senility, and a proper Leavit had commented, "Mademoiselle has not the proper respect."

Turning the bend, Clinton saw. a red-faced Claude stomping up and down in front of an exhausted group of men and horses. He caught sight of Keegan and walked over to him, asking, "What goes on?"

Merry blue eyes twinkling with amusement regarded Clinton. "Seems one of the guests 'as eluded 'im." Keegan pointed a gnarled finger in Claude's direction.

Smiling, Clinton ventured, "Let me guess. Lady Courtland?"

"Ya got it, guv'nor."

"Claude, saddle Mercury. I'll find her."

Relief washed over Claude's face and he quickly complied with Clinton's request, bringing out the chestnut stallion.

Clinton mounted, adjusting his stirrups. Claude paced back and forth, saying, "Mademoiselle went east, but the grooms could not find her."

Clinton spurred Mercury into a gallop heading west, hearing Claude shout, "No, she went east!"

Instinct told him he would find her at the course. Tiffany could not resist the temptation any more than she could resist her bonbons. No doubt "His Grace's" instruction caused her to bolt as she did, but "His Grace's" temptation would draw her back.

As the magnificent chestnut stallion galloped up the crest of a hill, the sun's rays reflected off its coat. Clinton headed the mount toward the grove of trees, pulling to a halt. Streams of breath escaped Mercury's flared nostrils. Smoky gray eyes scanned the field of courses, searching for his quarry. His eyes moved away from the courses to the nearby field, coming to rest on his Princess. Nothing could have prepared him for the scene his eyes beheld. He had expected to find her jumping her bloodied mare over the intricate course, at the very least putting her through a strenuous workout. No amount of research, no report, no matter how thorough, could have prepared him for what his eyes beheld. She was ever full of surprises. His gray eyes were touched by the gentle smile crossing his face as he beheld a most enchanting vision, one he would always cherish.

On a gentle knoll, which sloped toward the edge of a brook, under a majestic willow whose boughs entwined about, creating a bower, she sat, amidst a profusion of wild violets and daisies, weaving garlands of flowers. A band of daisies, interwoven with bluebells, circled her raven head, mingling within the soft curls, and where a froth of lace once lay, a necklace of violets adorned her throat and lay enticingly in the valley of her breasts. A soft breeze whispered through the high grass, molding her sheer blouse to the full, soft curve of her breast, and rustled long, curling strands of hair about. He watched her pluck a flower and press her nose against the full open blossom, inhaling the sweet fragrance. He was enthralled by the fairy-tale quality of the vision: she was all delicate, graceful, vulnerable, and so beautiful. He smiled watching her chase a butterfly, peer into the tinkling waters of the brook, and absently pluck the petals from a daisy as she sat in the meadow grass. He witnessed a different, unseen side of her: no longer the impertinent, furious kitten, but a sweet, gentle maid, innocent and vulnerable. She touched a tenderness, a protectiveness, he did not think he possessed. He dismounted, leading Mercury from the grove into the high meadow grass sprinkled with early wildflowers to meet his Princess.

Shalimar grazed peacefully while Tiffany finished the intricate pattern of the flower garland she wove. Lifting the garland, laying it about Shalimar's neck, Tiffany noticed it was similar to one she had made for Alan. Shalimar tossed her head, and Tiffany laughed at the mare's antics, exclaiming, "Why, you look like a queen decked out royally!"

Tiffany leaned back on her arms, lifting her face to the sun, looking upward at the blue sky and watching the white, billowy clouds move across it. Closing her eyes, she could hear the steady buzz of nectar-filled bees and imagined them flitting from blossom to blossom, collecting their ambrosia. Opening her eyes, she saw the lacy, dainty wings of the dayflies flitting about, rejoicing in their birth. The tinkling waters of the brook tripped and fell over moss-covered stones in its path; the croaking of a bullfrog calling its mate was music to her ears. All of it lent an air of tranquillity to her spirit, and her earlier trepidation fled on the wings of an elusive butterfly.

She plucked a flower, pressing it against her nose, inhaling the sweet fragrance. A daisy caught her eyes; she plucked it and twirled it between her fingers, watching the pollen-yellow center blend with the pinwheel petals. She regarded the flower and smiled remembering a childhood game, and began plucking its white petals, one by one, repeating out loud, "He loves me, he loves me not ..."

So immersed was she in her play, in a world where she needed no barrier or wall to protect herself, she failed to hear or see his advance, and only when she discarded another petal and he said, "He loves you," did she look up.

He stood framed against the low sun, its rays streaming from behind him. The breeze softly rustled his hair and billowed his shirt open, exposing a well-muscled chest covered with a mat of dark hair. A stallion grazed behind him, its reins resting in his hand, a bouquet of violets in his other. She watched him bend down on one knee and extend the bouquet to her, a soft, disarming smile lighting his face, touching the depths of his gray eyes.

A long moment passed as if time were suspended. Suspicious blue eyes regarded smoky gray. Clinton, not wishing to spoil the moment, did not advance, nor did he retreat. Tiffany leaned back on her arms, ready to move dare he advance.

"Greeks bearing gifts, Mr. Barencourte?" Looking pointedly at the proffered bouquet, she said, "I think I shall beware."

Clinton sat down beside her, smiling as he laid the violets down between them. He realized the moment was shattered and his kitten was baring her claws. Stretching out on his side, he absently plucked a blade of grass, chewing on it. He noticed her bare toes peeking out from beneath her skirt when she drew her knees up, resting her chin on them.

Tiffany decided to take the bull by the horns. "Exactly what brings you here, Mr. Barencourte?"

Rewarding her with a dazzling smile, the blade of grass protruding from the side of his mouth, he explained, "It seems you left the stable without an escort, so I was summoned to the task."

Her laughter at his remark filled the air and was comfort to his ears.

"Hah! They were concerned for my safety and sent you to ensure it? Now, that I find quite amusing." She stood gracefully and brushed her riding skirt. Looking down at his reclining figure, shaking her head, her crown of flowers cocking slightly to the right, she raised a brow and remarked, "Sending the wolf to tend the sheep."

A wolfish grin was his reply. Tiffany glared at him, thinking he was the most infuriating man alive! In a huff she turned to leave, only to find that Shalimar, scenting the stallion, had moved a good distance away. Tiffany walked slowly, cooing softly to the flighty mare. As Tiffany advanced, Shalimar trotted farther away.

Clinton lay with his arms crossed behind his head, resting in the meadow, his eyes closed, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he listened to Tiffany's attempt to sweet-talk the skittish mare.

Unable to coax the mare, Tiffany cried in exasperation,
"Ooooh!"
Storming back, she glared at his prone form. How dare he lie there nonchalantly when he was the cause of her problem?

Feeling her gaze on him, Clinton opened one eye to find her standing above him, her fists resting on her rounded hips, and her bare foot tapping soundlessly against the ground. Such a lovely picture she presented. Her crown askew, the flower necklace rising and falling with her heaving breasts, and her locks falling beguilingly about her.

"Look what you've done, you cad!"

Innocently he asked,
"Moi?
Certainly, Princess, you know about the birds and the bees. It is not me, but the stallion." Smiling, he closed his eyes and added confidently, "She'll come around; they always do."

Seething with anger, Tiffany thought she'd love to wipe that grin off his face. She stood a moment longer; finally seeing the wisdom in his words, she tossed herself down in the high meadow grass, which she unmercifully began to pluck. Silence reined.

Clinton, lying prone with eyes closed, broke the silence. "Did you ride the course?"

Looking at the course, noting the manner in which it was designed, she answered him, "No, my mare took lame. I did not wish to inflict further injury to her leg."

Turning onto his side, he offered, "My mount is available for your use. Unless you find the course too difficult."

Tiffany rose to the bait. "Hah! Perhaps for His Grace! A child could figure out the best route for time and faults."

Clinton raised himself up. Standing above her, he offered his hand. "My mighty steed awaits your pleasure, milady."

Tiffany allowed him to help her up. They walked toward Mercury, who eyed Tiffany warily. While Clinton adjusted the stirrups, Tiffany proceeded to befriend the stallion, blowing softly on his muzzle.

"I'm afraid, Princess, the stirrups are too long and the saddle too big."

"Remove it; I can handle him without it." She returned her attention to Mercury, noting the fine lines indicative of good breeding. No match for Xanadu, she thought, but a worthy steed. Stroking the horse, she asked lightly, "A man at the stables said His Grace sold Xanadu." She turned her face to him. "I thought you said the duke was not in need of funds."

"He isn't." Pulling the saddle from Mercury's back, he turned to face her, noting the fleeting look of sadness pass over her. Softly he asked, "You remember the price, Princess, don't you?"

Sadness fled, an incredulous look crossing her face, a blush staining her cheeks. "A . . .a night..." She could not finish.

A wolfish grin split his face. "The price was upped and met. A lifetime, Princess, a lifetime." He cupped her foot, boosting her onto Mercury's back. His hand lingered and moved up her stockingless leg. She slapped his hand away, kicking Mercury toward the course.

Clinton watched her post up and down, zeroing in on her nicely rounded buttocks. He grinned, thinking she'd bear his weight quite well.

Coming down the broad, curving staircase, Winifred turned to Tiffany. A slow, beaming smile worked its way across her face as she thought Tiffany looked positively breathtaking. She asked, "Did you enjoy your ride this afternoon, dear?"

"Yes, Aunt Winnie, except for Shalimar's lameness." And a certain unwanted visitor, she thought. She had ridden Mercury over the course with hardly a flaw and was miffed that Mr. Barencourte had taken it flawlessly. Actually, the afternoon turned out quite pleasant. Mr. Barencourte had managed to act like a gentleman.

"Will Shalimar be sound?"

"Mr. Barencourte seems to think a day or two of rest and she'll be as good as new." Tiffany paused in her descent to look at the immense crystal chandelier, the likes of which she had never seen. The flickering lights of a thousand candles reflected a rainbow of colors off the tear-shaped crystal droplets.

Winnie stopped, seeing what had caught Tiffany's attention, and explained, "The duke of Chablisienne's home is a virtual museum of priceless treasures. Many presented for the family's loyalty and bravery."

At the mention of the duke, Tiffany bristled, doubting loyalty or bravery had anything to do with it. More than likely the whole family was self-indulgent, striving to possess anything, merely to possess it. She began again to descend the broad, curving staircase, touching the gilded railing. Sarcasm clearly etched in her question, she asked, "Has his royal personage made an appearance?"

Winnie cocked her head toward Tiffany, confusion clearly written on her face. As they stepped onto the marble floor of the foyer, Winnie answered, "Quite a while ago, dear."

Not looking at her aunt, she scanned the crowd, remarking dryly, "I can hardly wait to meet His Eminence."

Winifred drew her brows together, perplexed as she began to reply, "But my dear, you al--" Carolyn's sudden flustered appearance interrupted Winifred.

"Oh, here you are, Tiffany. Thank goodness. Please see to Alysse. Why, she's all aflutter, says she knows none of Kent's friends." Carolyn fanned herself furiously.

Tiffany left to find Alysse, and Carolyn turned to Winifred. "Oh, Winnie, were we as nervous? How will she ever make it to the wedding? ... Oh my, what--"