Whitney, My Love (17 page)

Grooms and stablekeeps and three gardeners hurried to
the enclosure, positioning themselves along the fence for the best view.
Thomas and two grooms held the stallion's head while Clayton ran his hand
along the horse's sleek neck, speaking quietly to him. The remembered feel
of that same hand fondling her breast made Whitney flush with anger.

Clayton put his foot in the stirrup, then eased up and
over, settling slowly, carefully into the saddle, avoiding any sudden
movement that might add to the stallion's alarm. In spite of his caution,
Dangerous Crossing snorted and jerked wildly at the men holding him. The
last man who had used that particular saddle was shorter than Clayton and,
for a moment, it looked to Whitney as if Crossing were going to rid himself
of his unwelcome burden while the stirrup leathers were being lengthened.

Whitney laughed at the way the stallion was turning and
twisting about. At any second, she expected Clayton to give up and dismount.
Instead he gathered the reins and the grooms turned the stallion loose, then
leapt out of the way.

All Clayton's attention was concentrated on the nervous,
sweating stallion beneath him. "Easy now," he soothed, loosening the reins
very slightly. Dangerous Crossing jerked his head furiously, trying to get
the bit between his teeth as he danced sideways across the enclosure,
threatening first to rear and then trying to get his head down to buck.
"Easy now . . . Easy . . ." The voice calmed the horse's ragged nerves; the
light contact on his reins held him firmly but not harshly under control.

Whitney watched in wide-eyed astonishment as the
stallion fretted a bit and then smoothed out, easing into a flashy trot
across the length of the enclosure. The stallion's ears were forward, and he
looked as if he were almost enjoying himself, proud to be bearing the burden
of the tall man atop him- until Clayton brushed the stallion's flank with
the crop, signaling for a canter. Instantly Crossing jerked his head,
bunching his hindquarters to buck.

"It's the crop, sir," Thomas called happily. "Drop it-
that's all that's worrying him now."

For the moment, Whitney dismissed her grievances against
the man. She was too She a horsewoman herself to pretend to be unimpressed
by what she had just witnessed. Clayton's expert handling of Dangerous
Crossing filled her with admiring respect, and she made no effort to conceal
it as the stallion trotted toward her. Her mouth curved into a smile as she
started to pay him the tribute he deserved-only to have Clayton slap the
crop into her outstretched hand and snap, "Sorry to disappoint you. Find
someone else to play your nursery games with next time."

"You monster!" Whitney hissed, raising her arm; the crop
sliced the air, missed Clayton's shoulder, and bit into the stallion's
flank. Raging and violent, the stallion threw himself into the air, broke
for the fence as if be were going to crash through it, and at the last
possible moment, leapt it instead with the bit in his teeth-completely out
of control.

"Oh dear God," Whitney whispered, watching horse and
rider tearing across the rolling landscape. In belated shame, she looked
away. The silent punishment she was heaping on herself for her childish
attempt at vengeance was reinforced by Thomas, who flung himself across the
corral, his face purple with fury. "Is this what you learned in France-to
bring injury to strangers! Is it?" he roared. "No one will ever mount that
horse again, you little fool!" He turned and ran for a mount to pursue the
stallion.

It was all Whitney could do not to go after Thomas and
explain that she'd intended to hit the rider, not the horse. Never the
horse. Off to her distant left, the stallion was rapidly diminishing to a
speck on the horizon, and there was no way to tell if the rider was still
up. Glancing about her, Whitney saw disapproval on every servant's face
before their eyes slid away from her.

She couldn't bear to remain here and suffer their silent
accusation. She turned Khan and cantered from the enclosure, but once
outside its boundary, she realized she hadn't any idea where to go. She drew
Khan to a halt and hesitated.

She really ought to stay here and face the results of
her wretched conduct. Would they bring Clayton back on a litter? If so, she
must remain to lend whatever assistance she could.

She turned Khan back toward the stable, then brought him
up short again. Could Clayton possibly remain on Dangerous Crossing and
bring him back? She hoped so, but if that should be the case, Whitney had no
desire to be present when he did return. Just imagining his righteous wrath
made her hands tremble with fear. "Coward!" she hissed at herself, turning
Khan and starting for the Sevarin house where she could inquire about the
location of the picnic.

Khan tossed his head, tugging at the reins, eager for a
run, but Whitney had no heart for speed, and she kept him at a sedate walk.
Never had she felt so thoroughly obnoxious. Why, she wondered miserably, had
she made a mess of her life the moment she set foot in England? How she
hated herself for lapsing into the childish tempers she'd indulged in as a
girl. After several minutes of harsh self-recrimination, her present
predicament again intruded on her thoughts. How to atone for this calamity?
Would the horse hurt himself and have to be destroyed? Whether the animal
was injured or not, her father would never forgive her for her actions.

Her father! For the first time in her life, she'd seen
approbation in his eyes when he looked at her, and now everything would be
ruined. He would despise her for mistreating the horse, and if she tried to
explain that she had meant to hit the man, he'd be even more furious.
Somehow, she had to keep the tale from him. None of the servants would tell
him, of that Whitney was reasonably certain. Clayton Westland might, but
perhaps if she begged him not to, pleaded with him not to ...

Her unhappy reflections were interrupted by the sound of
hooves beating a quick staccato behind her, and Whitney looked over her
right shoulder, gaping at the sight of Clayton atop a lathered Dangerous
Crossing who was closing rapidly on her.

Out of pure reflex, Whitney raised her crop to send Khan
bolting ahead, then checked herself and dropped her arm.

She would stay here and face the man, admit her fault-a
lot of good it would do to deny it anyway!

As Clayton drew abreast, Whitney beheld a face of such
dark, menacing rage that she shuddered. In one fluid motion, Clayton swooped
down, grabbed Khan's right rein, end hauled both horses to a sharp stop.
"You can let go of my rein," Whitney said softly. "I'm not going to run."

"Shut up!" he hissed. Since he maintained his hold on
Khan's rein, Whitney had no choice but to ride quietly beside him while he
let Dangerous Crossing cool. In the oppressive silence, she tried to think
cf something to say to break the tension, but the only thing she could think
of was to comment on how well Clayton had managed the stallion. Under the
circumstances, however, she didn't think this was an appropriate time to
say, "Well done, Mr. Westland!"

At the remains of an old stone wall a few yards from
where they'd first met beside the stream, Clayton halted the horses and
dismounted. He tied the stallion with swift, precise movements then strode
to Whitney, jerked Khan's left rein from her hand, and tied him on the
opposite side of the wall from the stallion. He tamed on his heel, snapped,
"Get down!" to Whitney, and stalked toward the old sycamore tree atop the
knoll.

Whitney took judicious note of the taut set of his jaw,
his long, purposeful strides, and felt the first tendril of fear coil in the
pit of her stomach. "I prefer to stay here," she said unsteadily, watching
him over her shoulder.

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 be 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, and he said in a
terrifyingly pleasant tone, "Which will you have, your father or me? Do we
settle this between us now, or would you prefer that I take it up with him?"

Whitney 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 remote 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 icy gray ones.

"Now we are both going to share your favorite
amusements: Riding, using the crop, and apologizing. You will 'ride' my
knee, I will use the crop, and you are going to apologize. Do you understand
the rules of our little game?"

Whitney's gaze slid unwillingly to the black riding crop
in his hand, then jerked back to his tanned face. She did not deign to
reply.

"Lie across my lap, Whitney." He politely extended his
hand to assist her, and in her terror, Whitney unthinkingly accepted it. She
knelt beside him, glaring at him in stiff hatred. Cocking a dark eyebrow, he
nodded meaningfully at his lap.

Drowning in an ocean of mortification, Whitney 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.

Above her, she heard his voice. "I will stop when you
apologize. Not before." He raised his arm and Whitney wondered wildly how
much protection her riding habit would provide, then had her answer as the
crop whined through the air, slicing against her clothing, welting her
tender flesh. He paused, waiting. For her apology.

Whitney gritted her teeth; he could beat her senseless
but she'd never give him the satisfaction of an apology. Never! His arm came
up another time, the crop landed mercilessly across her buttocks. Another
pause . . .

Whitney counted through streaks of vivid pain-three
times, four, five. By now she was sobbing. The sixth time her body jerked
and a strangled cry wrenched from her. His arm lifted, and she screamed
"Stop!" then cursed herself because he had already flung the crop away.

He grasped her roughly by the shoulders and turned her
in his arms to sit across his lap. Whitney tried to pull away, but Ms arms
tightened, and his hand lifted to hold her face pressed to his chest. Her
ribs heaved and scalding tears raced down her cheeks, soaking through the
front of his shirt as she wept, more from impotent fury than from pain. As
if he were soothing a child, he began to stroke her hair. Whitney angrily
shoved his hand away, but he ignored her and continued.

The minutes passed, and Whitney had just gotten control
of herself when his hand touched her chin, tipping her face up to his.
Glaring at him through a haze of wrathful tears, she whispered, "I hate
you!"

"I know you do," he said quietly. It registered on
Whitney that there was neither triumph nor satisfaction on his face and,
since she could find nothing else in his expression to stoke the flames of
her animosity, she looked away, staring fixedly off to the left,
occasionally wiping at her tear-streaked face with her fingertips.

"Look at me," he ordered gently.

"No!" Whitney retorted. "If I do, I'll scratch your eyes
out, so help me!"

"You're not nearly so angry with me as you are with
yourself."

"How much would you care to bet?" Whitney snapped, but
she could feel her anger ebbing as she looked at Dangerous Crossing, whose
satin blackness was now splashed with huge, sweaty white patches. 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 & double miracle that both horse and
rider hadn't been seriously injured.