Whitney, My Love (18 page)

He was right: she was bitterly angry with herself for
what she had done even if her regret was more for the sake of the horse than
the man. She finally realized that Clayton was waiting for her to apologize,
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, I suppose it was irresponsible and dangerous, a childish act deserving
of a child's punishment." "Thank you for that," he said almost tenderly. To
be guilty and punished, to feel remorse and then be forgiven was a sequence
of events totally missing from Whitney's childhood experience. Whenever she
had apologized to her father, he had listened and then launched into a fresh
tirade about her misbehavior, and Whitney had expected about the same from
Clayton. She stared at him, hardly able to believe what she saw and felt.
His gray eyes were full of warmth, and he was smiling at her with gentle
understanding.

Suddenly, 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 about ..."

"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 shaped and molded to his, Whitney knew he would let her pull away
if she tried. Instead 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 eyes. "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 hers 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, finding the place where the crop
had welted, lifting her up and tighter to him, then gently soothing away the
sting.

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 patted 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 sounds 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.

Whitney lurched to a sitting position, her face flushed,
and he began smoothing her hair. "Of course," she said, surging to her feet.
"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 tune, 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 hinging 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 fete 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 them 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 was running with a bad
foreleg," 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 drily. "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 vengeful glance at Clayton and said
with more conviction than she really felt, "Certainly not. I'll win easily."

"Are you planning to wear men's breeches and ride
astride? Or will you go barefoot and try to stand on his back?" Margaret
taunted viciously.

As if by mutual agreement, everyone else began talking
at once, drowning out Margaret's voice, but Whitney heard snatches of what
she was saying to Clayton and the other couple: "... disgraced her father .
. . scandalized the village . . ."

The servants began to distribute baskets of cold
chicken, ham, cheese, and apples and pears. Whitney determinedly shook off
the pall of Margaret's spite and strove to make something enjoyable of what
was left of her day. She listened to the light raillery Emily was exchanging
with her husband, Michael. "Whitney and I made a bet when we were very
young," she was telling him. "The first of us to marry had to pay the other
a forfeit of �5."

"That's absolutely right!" Whitney smiled. "I had
forgotten."

"Since it was I who influenced her to marry me," Michael
Archibald said, winking at Whitney, "I suppose I am honor-bound to pay her
forfeit."

"Indeed you are," Whitney returned. "And I hope that
won't be the last time Emily allows you to influence her, my lord."

"So do I!" Baron Archibald replied with such exaggerated
despair that Whitney burst out laughing.

Paul leaned close, and Whitney looked up at him, traces
of laughter still lingering in her eyes. "Are you planning to allow me to
influence you?" he asked.

It was so near to a declaration of his intentions that
Whitney could hardly believe she'd heard him correctly. "That depends," she
said in a whisper, unable to tear her gaze from his compelling blue eyes. A
fierce gust of wind blew up, tossing her hair wildly about her face and
shoulders. Absently, Whitney reached behind her for the yellow and white
dotted scarf that should have been holding her hair back.