When the Splendor Falls (33 page)

“Why don’t we both go? I’ll be right behind you,” Justin suggested, grinning, and hoping he wouldn’t have to be the one to confront his brother with the suggestion, for he already suspected what his answer would be.

“Good idea,” Adam said, “only watch that sword of yours, I don’t want to end up riding it if you follow me too close behind. Of course, we could always get Nathan to ask him. But, alas, being of a saner mind, he’d be against it and do our cause more harm than good. For once I’d welcome his opinion and hope it would prevail,” Adam added beneath his breath as he suddenly caught Neil’s eye and signaled him over.

Neil could feel the tense excitement and anticipation, barely held in check, that pervaded the group as he walked across the room, every eye watching him with more than casual interest as he came to stand beside them.

“Adam, Justin,” he said, nodding politely to Palmer, then to Guy, who gazed at him for a long, assessing moment, then nodded almost insultingly.

“Mr. Braedon, why does a Comanche hate an Apache so much?” someone couldn’t resist asking.

Neil smiled, and it raised the hair on the back of the young man’s neck as he remembered that this man had been raised by the Comanche and might even have scalped someone—perhaps even that unfortunate Texan.

“For many reasons. And the new feuds keep the old hatreds alive. They have always been the enemy. Although perhaps the most damning reason comes from contempt, because an Apache would eat a horse as soon as ride him, and the horse is sacred to the Comanche.”

“Guess a Comanche and a Virginian aren’t too different after all,” a laughing voice declared.

“To the Comanche, the horse is a god dog. And since the Apache also eat dog, that makes them even less than buffalo dung in the eyes of the Comanche.”

“Reckon an Apache and a Northerner have more in common than I thought too,” the same gentleman remarked much to the appreciation of his listeners.

“What is a god dog?” one of the serious-minded cadets asked, for if he were posted out in the territories, it would serve him well to learn a bit about the savages he would be fighting.

“Until the horse came to our land, by the good grace of the Spaniards, the dog was the beast of burden for
The People
. He was very valuable to them, for he carried all their possessions on his back and could pull a heavily loaded travois. But the horse brought magic to the tribe. As a packhorse, it could carry far more than the dog and travel greater distances. And when ridden, the tribe could attack its enemies. And it could escape from them. The god dog is powerful medicine. For the brave who can catch him and master him, he will know the glory of victory by defeating the enemy. And he will bring prosperity to the tribe by hunting the buffalo,” he explained, his own thoughts echoing with the softly spoken words of She-With-Eyes-Of-The-Captured-Sky when she told him of the great warriors and how
they were no longer bound to the earth, but could soar above the clouds like the eagle, the thunder in the sky, the pounding of hooves against the wind.

“A brave’s life isn’t worth anything unless he has a fast mount beneath him. To become a fierce warrior and master of the plains,” Neil continued, a strange light in his pale eyes, “is the dream of all young men of the tribe. The horse made that possible, and the Comanche’s skill and bravery made it happen. There is a saying that the Comanche lives by, ‘A brave man dies young.’”

“Good Lord,” an impressionable young man muttered, eyeing Neil Braedon as if he’d suddenly sprouted head feathers.

“How about proving how fast the bold Comanche brave rides?” Guy asked, the tone of his voice doubtful.

“Someone suggested,” Adam said hurriedly almost apologetically, for things were getting out of hand, “that it might be interesting to see who was best. We thought a little cross-country race. Crimson Royal is yours for the race. Guy will ride Apothecary.”

“You’ve my hand as a gentleman that I’ll make good my debt to you, but I thought you might be more interested in a fine pair of eighteenth-century holster pistols by Barbar of London I wanted to show you. Had offers for them many times, but never sold them. Part of my collection. Also got a pair by Brunn of Charing Cross, and they were used by the Prince Regent himself. I’ve a pair of dueling pistols made by Wogdon & Barton. Best English made around. I’ve even got a pair of short-barreled wheel-lock pistols. Sixteenth century. You’ll not find many of them around, and not in such good condition. The collection is worth more than what I owe you. I thought we might come to an arrangement, but now, now I’m going to bet them,” Guy offered easily, sure of himself as he heard the murmurs of approval from his gentlemen friends, many of whom knew the value of those prized dueling pistols.

“I don’t need a pair of sixteenth-century pistols to mount over my fireplace. And I have no use for dueling pistols at Riovado, since I seldom indulge in dueling, or pleasure shooting. I need a gun that will bring down a wolf savaging my cattle, or a puma raiding my corralled horses, and it has to be accurate whether at close range or across a distance of three hundred yards. I carry a Remington and a Sharps. I need nothing more,
unless
you have a Henry .44 rifle you want to pay your debt with, then we might be able to talk. But I’ve no need of a gentleman’s toy I’m not really interested in—”

“Losing? Not surprising, Braedon, that you don’t want to destroy your image, since all we’ve heard from you is only talk,” Guy interrupted, stung by the other man’s contemptuous rejection of his offer. “Not man enough to prove me wrong?”

But Neil wouldn’t rise to the hotheaded, younger man’s jibing challenge, his pitying smile as he glanced down at him answering for him as he started to turn away. Insulted, and unable to exercise his better judgment, Guy grabbed his arm, and said angrily, “You ride better, shoot better, probably even whore better than the rest of us, and apparently, you boast better. Bet you’d turn out to be the biggest coward of the lot too.”

Even Guy, befuddled from too much drink and allowing his tongue to become indiscreet, sensed the danger and released his grip, taking a cautionary step back when he met Neil Braedon’s cold-eyed stare.

“You, Mr. Travers, cannot afford to lose any more than you already have, and since you have nothing I want, this time I will save you the ignominy of being in my debt further,” was all Neil said before turning to walk away from the now quiet group.

His face flushed from whiskey and humiliation, Guy pushed his way clear of his silent friends, none of whom would meet his eye, and hurried from the room.

Adam looked heavenward, wondering how he let himself get involved in such harebrained schemes, and the resulting embarrassing scenes. Glancing around, he sought again the pale green figure that he couldn’t forget, but she was nowhere to be seen. He smiled. He had claimed that other waltz with her, and although he was impatient to hold her in his arms again, he was not worried, for he had the rest of the summer to pursue Blythe Travers. Adam frowned as he smoothed his mustache a trifle nervously, wondering if she liked him and pondering anew how strange life was. Yesterday he’d been flirting with the ladies, enjoying his bachelorhood, and taking pride in having beautiful mistresses in Charleston and Richmond, but now all he could think about was Blythe, the long-legged, coltish girl with the laughing eyes, who’d grown up right beneath his nose. And he’d never even noticed until tonight what a beautiful woman she’d become. But now, his main concern was that other gentlemen might have taken notice of the blossoming of Blythe Travers. In fact, one of them might have dared to take her into the gardens for a moonlit stroll, he realized, alarmed. Cursing beneath his breath, he thought of her in another man’s arms, listening to another man’s seductive talk, and he quickened his step as he left the ballroom in search of his newfound love.

Neil stood alone, also searching for one particular figure as the dancers glided by the double doors to the ballroom. He’d watched Leigh Travers all evening, feeling both pain and pleasure as he felt the flame of desire flickering through his blood, quickening it, yet knew that she belonged to another man and would never be his. He’d found himself recalling his first impression of her, when watching her in the golden sunshine of the meadow, and knew again that he would never be satisfied to gaze upon her beauty from afar. He hadn’t seen her since that first morning when he’d arrived at Travers Hill, purposely staying away after discovering her true identity, and after listening to the talk at Royal Bay and learning she was to marry a man named Matthew Wycliffe.

She was beyond his reach. She always had been if he had but known it.

But he hadn’t forgotten her—he couldn’t—or how much he still wanted her. It had been almost self-torture to stay away from her, knowing she was nearby, hearing about her from others, from the friends and family who had every right to speak her name. But to gaze upon her, without being able to touch her, to claim her, would have been far worse. Disgusted, he’d almost convinced himself that he’d been mistaken about the tantalizing allurement of Leigh Alexandra Travers, but he’d deluded himself into believing he was not susceptible to the seduction of her smile, of the graceful way she moved when she entered a room. And so he had not been prepared for the raw emotions that had raged through him upon seeing her again when arriving at Travers Hill for the party held in honor of her sister’s birthday.

He had even been deprived of having the satisfaction of disliking Matthew Wycliffe. When he’d met the man he’d found him to be the perfect gentleman, and, under different circumstances, a very likable one. Intelligent, warm, and friendly, not in the least pompous or pretentious despite his family name and wealth, he was the man a woman like Leigh should marry. Neil had found himself coming to believe that as he’d watched them together. They belonged, and their happiness had been destined long ago. At least, he had believed that until, by chance, his eyes had met and locked with Leigh’s dark blue eyes; her gaze, burning with intensity, in that brief, unguarded moment, had revealed more to him than she could possibly have realized. In that instant, her soul had become his, the look in her eyes one of tender yearning, of unfulfilled desire. He had felt strangely triumphant in the revelation, yet at the same time, he felt as if he had suffered an incredible loss.

Taking a snifter from a silver tray being carried around by the majordomo, and offered only to the gentlemen, he moved to stand near a grouping of tropical palms and citrus trees, content to sip his brandy, knowing he would catch sight of her soon enough, and he would somehow manage to be alone with her. He glanced around curiously when he heard voices coming from the far side of the palm, which effectively hid the two people in conversation, allowing them a false sense of privacy. He didn’t need to see them to know the names of the two: Maribel Lu Samuelson and her husband, J. Kirkfield.

He remained still, not revealing his presence, not that he wished to overhear their private conversation, but rather because he did not wish to join them in it. One such encounter was enough, he thought, remembering his previous conversation with Maribel Lu Samuelson earlier in the evening. An overbearing, tightly laced busybody who could scarcely catch her breath was the impression he had come away with after being held in her grasp for over half an hour. But out of respect for his stepmother, who was one of her longtime friends and would wish to hear all about this evening in the greatest detail, he had remained, showing polite interest in all that she said. But now, since he couldn’t help but listen, he knew a genuine interest in her conversation.

“What a party this has become. Not that I’m surprised. Beatrice Amelia does know how to entertain. It’s in her French blood. Can’t fault her there, although I would have set the buffet tables over against that wall instead. And I would have been so disappointed if your gout had kept us from attending. To think that the announcement of Leigh’s engagement came tonight! Well, it has been an exciting evening.”

“Well, I’m damned relieved. Best thing that has happened to this family, Maribel Lu. Stuart is a fine man, I’ve no criticism there, but when it comes to finance, he doesn’t have a head for business. And unfortunately, Beatrice Amelia’s father lost most of the Leigh fortune in bad investments. So there was no looking there for assistance. I’m surprised the Benjamin Leighs are living as well as they are. I have done the best I can, because I’m family, but there is only so much I could have done to keep Travers Hill out of the hands of the creditors. Stuart, with his damned Travers pride, hasn’t helped matters any by refusing to be reasonable. Acts as if things were like they were thirty years ago. Well, they’re not! I was amazed, Maribel, absolutely astounded, to learn that your brother owes just about everyone in Virginia. Advised him to sell that bottom land to the Braedons, and that property in Richmond. I’ll handle that for him, of course. I just hope Matthew Wycliffe knew what he was taking on when he asked Leigh to marry him. From what I understand, however, he knew exactly the position the family was in, because he now holds the mortgage on Travers Hill. But with his money, and being a breeder himself, this will prove to have been a good investment. Can’t lose. Can’t fault Stuart’s head for horses, either. Still has the best stables in the South. Well, Wycliffe has pretty much got himself Travers Hill, debts and all, but I just hope he can manage this family. Don’t think Stuart will take kindly if he tries to give advice. Know Guy won’t, even if he and Wycliffe are friends. None of the Traverses do. Hardheaded bunch of Scotch-Irish, only wish they were as tightfisted with their money too.”

“Do remember, J. Kirkfield Samuelson,
I
am a Travers too.”

“I’ve never forgotten that, Maribel Lu. Indeed I have not, for the Travers name is still much respected and known throughout Virginia. We’ve gotten a lot of business because of it.”

“Well, I am most pleased by the announcement of Leigh’s engagement to Matthew.”

“Wonder about that,” J. Kirkfield muttered.