Ten minutes later, Banner was still sitting on the stool. Jake and Moore had returned to the house, Moore literally rubbing his hands together in excitement and already planning phone calls to begin making arrangements. Banner and Rory were alone in the cottage, and she was stunned.
“But I've never had any training,” she said incredulously. “I learned from books, for heaven's sake!”
“And by painting.” Rory stood before her, smiling.
She stared at him, then laughed unsteadily. “I can't believe this. It's like something out of a dream… or a nightmare. Rory, what if they don't like my work? What if they laugh at me?”
“They won't,” he promised firmly. “Moore isn't the only one who knows something about art, milady; I know a bit myself. And I'm quite sure that you're going to be a famous lady very shortly.”
“I'm afraid,” she admitted. “I'm afraid I'll regret this.”
He pulled her to her feet, smiling down at her.
“Wouldn't you regret it much more if you didn't take the chance?” he challenged quietly.
“I—yes, I suppose so.” She shook her head. “I know I would.”
Gravely, Rory said, “In that case, may I buy the future talk of the art world a cup of coffee? I don't think she had any breakfast.”
In the new and bewildering excitement of a soon-to-be showing of her work in New York, Banner should have found it easy to think of things other than Rory.
Should have. But didn't.
David Moore was remaining at the Hall for a few days, making his arrangements by phone. From his gallery in Charleston, he'd borrowed a couple of his men to crate her paintings carefully for their shipment to New York. He had asked gravely that he be allowed to give her a second show later on, at the Charleston gallery, so that the South could admire the work of one of its own, and she had assented even while wondering if there would be a second anything after the critics in New York finished with her.
All of this should have been a diversion from Rory and from the way he made her feel simply by entering a room and smiling at her.
But he was never out of her thoughts, and she no longer even tried to fight him—on any level. She became as unembarrassed as he by possessive touches and passionate kisses, uncaring if Jake or Moore or the servants witnessed.
They swam together, rode together, walked together. They talked late into the night about pasts and thoughts and ideas. They listened to music and played Scrabble and chess and poker. Familiarity grew between them, the automatic facades of acquaintances falling away to reveal the bare and vulnerable surfaces willing to trust.
And though desire was never more than a touch or a glance away, laughter helped to smooth the rough edges of passion.
“I really hate to complain again, milady, but I woke up sneezing this morning. That jasmine scent was gone—or I thought it was—for a while, but now it's back.”
They were sharing a late breakfast this morning, and Banner sent him a wry look across the table. “Is it?”
“Yes. I asked Conner, and he said the maids didn't use jasmine- scented freshener, or jasmine-scented anything else, for that matter. Maybe I could move to another room.”
Banner sighed. “I'm afraid that wouldn't do any good, Rory.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn't the room. It's what… uh, comes into the room.”
He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
She sneaked a glance up from her orange juice, fighting a smile. “Well, you see, it's Mother.”
“Your mother? But she's—”
“Uh-huh.”
Rory drained his orange juice with all the air of a man who wished it were something considerably stronger.
Smothering a giggle, Banner said, “Mother always wore jasmine; she loved it. So apparently she's—uh—visiting you.”
“Why?”
“You'd have to ask her.”
“I don't suppose there's another—logical— explanation for the jasmine scent?”
“You're welcome to come up with one. If you can.”
“You're enjoying this!” he accused her.
“Immensely.”
He sighed. What's her name?”
“Mother's? Sarah. Why?”
“I just want to be able to ask her politely why she's visiting my room.”
“Let me know if she answers.”
“I'll do that.”
SEVEN
BY THE MIDDLE of Rory's second week at the Hall, Banner's paintings were on their way to New York, and so was David Moore. He had set a tentative date for the showing of barely two weeks away, at which time Jake and Banner would also be in that city.
Banner didn't know what Rory's plans were. They didn't talk about the showing or about the future of the Hall, both tacitly preferring to take each day as it came. And each day was becoming more difficult for them.
It was hard to say whether their honesty made things worse; neither of them pretended or tried to hide their desire. The entire household—led, needless to say, by Jake—entered into a conspiracy to leave them alone together as much as possible, which tried both Rory's patience and Banner's pride considerably.
She had made up her mind that the next move—if, indeed, there was to be one—would come from him. Another rejection on top of her fear about the showing would be more than she could handle, and she knew it. But the restless, sleepless nights were hard. And there was no satisfaction for her in the knowledge that the nights were just as hard on Rory.
Rather than attempt any more postmidnight swims, she began creeping through the silent house and out to her cottage studio, there to work harder than she'd ever done in her life. The portrait of the blond gentleman was finished— though not in time for the New York show, for which she was curiously grateful. It reposed on an easel beside the new work. The painting she worked on now was of Jasmine Hall, a subject she had never before felt qualified to attempt. And after three nights of steady, driven work, it was nearly finished.
She made no mention of the painting to either Rory or her grandfather; the painting had become, for her, a private farewell to the Hall.
And it was that symbol of finality, her own determination to paint what was lost to her, that finally made Banner face a future she'd avoided considering so successfully until then.
It was Thursday, and somewhere near midnight; the painting was finished. It sat on her easel, a glowing representation of a home that had housed generations. And she had, in unconscious whimsy, hinted at those generations long dead. Near the corner of the veranda among the darkness of ivy, she had bent sunlight to her will and had it shape the vague outline of a light-haired man in the dress of a century before. At one upstairs window, a fluttery curtain and vague shadows hinted at a presence. And in the rose garden, which occupied the background on the right of the painting, wisps of a morning mist might have been Rebel soldiers strolling with their brides.
Banner never heard the thud of her palette dropping to the floor. She stared at the painting and the pain of loss throbbed in her. Jasmine Hall… and Rory.
She didn't turn off the lights or close the door behind her; she simply ran for the stables, desperate to get away from her own thoughts. But they followed her relentlessly as she bridled a startled El Cid and grasped his thick mane to swing aboard his bare back, and they followed her as willing Thoroughbred legs ate up the ground in long strides.
Why, why couldn't she believe that she could live here with Rory no matter who actually owned the Hall? Why was her awful despair at the thought of losing the Hall mixed with an equally powerful despair at losing Rory?
Did she have to lose them both?
Her mind, ignoring all commands to blank itself, inexorably examined the situation and her own feelings about it. Pride. Was it simply pride that told her she would have to lose them both? Did it really matter so much to her that another name would be on the deed? If she married Rory, it would be her name as well as his; there would never be anot
her Clairmont to inherit the Hall no matter what happened.
And then she realized, slowly, that it was her pride. For generations, Clairmonts had maintained and preserved the Hall. And now she, the last Clairmont daughter, could do nothing— nothing—to save it for the family. With a bitter laugh that echoed in the darkness and caused Cid's ears to flick back nervously, she recalled Rory's parallels. Scarlett O'Hara had saved her Tara, she remembered self- mockingly. She had killed for her family and her Tara, had ruined her delicate hands and bowed her back working in the dirt to save her beloved Tara. She had schemed for it, pinched pennies for it, worked herself and her family relentlessly for survival and for Tara. She had entered a man's world and fought by her own rules. And in the end, she had saved Tara and lost the man she loved.
And what could Banner Clairmont do to save her Tara?
She could marry the man who wanted them both. But the empty ache inside of her was an agonizing denial of that option. Yes, that would save the Hall and keep her within it; she would see it flourish beneath Rory's guiding hand, she knew. Family name or no, descendants of Clairmonts would continue on in the home of their ancestors.
But she would never be sure.
Never be sure that the Hall had not seeped into Rory's blood more thoroughly than she ever could. Never be sure that he had not wanted the one because it was a part of the other. Never be sure that he loved her more.
And which, she asked herself then, honestly, did she love more? For a moment, a split second, she was torn. Then the pain ebbed, and she knew the answer. Rory. That was why she would leave him. She would leave him, not because her pride wouldn't allow her to live with him in his Jasmine Hall, but because she would never be sure just how much he loved her.
She wanted him to have the Hall if she couldn't keep it herself. He would take care of it. She would turn her back on the home that was a part of her and leave. She would turn her back on the man she loved more than her heritage and leave him because she couldn't bear being second in his heart.
“Trust me.”
She wished she could.
Rory stared at a shadowy ceiling, unable to sleep and not the least surprised by that. He was still fully dressed and lying on top the covers, having known that he wouldn't sleep. He thought of Banner and of the things they hadn't talked about these last days. The future of the Hall. Her show.
So much depended on that, though Banner herself hadn't realized it. Would she realize, he wondered, when she found out what prices would be asked for her paintings? Would she realize when she saw—as she inevitably would— that people were willing and eager to pay those prices? She had no conception of the scope of her talent, no idea at all just how gifted she really was.
Would she realize that her talent would allow her to keep the Hall?
Jake had realized, Rory knew. The old man was, of course, delighted, though clearly cautious; he would wait until the show before he would abandon plans to sell his plantation.
Rory would have told Banner himself, but he knew she wouldn't believe him. She would have to attend the show and find out for herself.
But the waiting was so hard….
And how would she react when his own involvement became apparent? If it did. If not, he'd tell her himself. Would she trust him enough to see why he'd done what he had? Or would her stubborn pride blind her to his true motives? It was that definite possibility more than anything else that had shored up Rory's patience these last days. He wanted her to be sure that he wanted her more than the Hall.
Of course, once she could be sure that the Hall would be hers, she could still suspect him of wanting them both. But no matter what he did, that possibility existed—unless he walked away, and then she still could lose her home. Rory would have willingly given up the Hall for Banner, but not at the cost of hurting her. She needed the Hall and he needed her.
He wondered, then, which she needed more— him or the plantation. He wondered if she had asked herself that. He didn't know the answer. He knew that he loved Banner, and wanted her no matter what the price. And he knew that if she agreed to marry him, it would be because she loved him. Nothing else mattered.
Rory sighed, then sat up abruptly as he sneezed. He realized then that the scent of jasmine had grown heavy in the room, so heavy that he was forced to breathe through his mouth or be racked by sneezes. Frowning, he gazed around the darkened room. His eyes followed the shaft of moonlight as it cut a bright path from window to door, then he caught his breath, absently swallowing another sneeze.
The door was open.
He distinctly remembered closing it, and knew from experience that it had a good, strong catch.
“Sarah?” he ventured uncertainly. Instantly, he sensed movement, agitated movement, and the scent of jasmine grew even stronger.
Startled, Rory swung his legs over the side of the bed. Clearly, his visitor wanted something of him, but he didn't know what it was. “I'm not a mind reader,” he told the visually- empty room, then almost laughed when he distinctly sensed irritation and impatience. “I hate to say it, but give me a sign.” He told himself he'd laugh about this in the morning.
The curtains at one window fluttered.
A bit hesitantly, he left his bed and moved to the window. Since the house was centrally air-conditioned, the sash was down, but Rory didn't let himself think about that; he just parted the curtains and gazed out and down on an empty moonlit garden. After a moment, he turned back to face the room.
“There's nothing there,” he complained.
More impatience, and then the door swung slowly, until it was almost closed, before swinging open again.
“You want me to go somewhere?”
Instant approval.
Rory obediently left his room. In the hall, he hardly knew which way to go, but then he saw what he immediately took to be his guide at the top of the stairs. The blond man. Shadowy and indistinct, he was nonetheless there, and Rory started for him, unable to ignore his own curiosity.
His blond guide led him down the stairs and out into the garden, always staying just far enough ahead that Rory had to strain to see him. He wondered absently why he could see this ghost but only feel Sarah, then wondered irritably why he was wondering.
He was obviously dreaming the whole damned thing.
Just as he realized they were heading for Banner's studio, he saw that lights were shining within and the door was open. He forgot his guide and hurried forward, uneasy because two ghosts had roused him in the middle of the night and both had clearly been upset.
He stepped into a cottage that seemed curiously bare, with only blank canvases leaning against the walls. Two completed paintings—the blond man and one Rory hadn't seen—reposed side by side on twin easels. The new painting was of Jasmine Hall, and he stood staring at it, feeling the raw emotion that had gone into the work.
Before he could do more than absorb the subject and the sadness it aroused, he heard the sound of thudding hooves, and made it back outside just in time to see El Cid's black form sharply etched in the moonlight as he galloped away from the stables and across the field, a small, familiar figure hunched on his back.
Without thinking, Rory ran for the stables.
Banner heard a shout behind her, heard the sound of pursuing hooves. For an instant she nearly reined in her mount. But then she leaned forward even more, her fingers tangled in Cid's thick mane and her knees pressed tightly to his sides. She didn't know why she was courting danger with this wild ride across fields and over fences, but she urged her horse on. El Cid, with the blood of wind- racing Arab ancestors in his aristocratic veins, lengthened his stride until he seemed to barely skim the ground, and took wing over every jump.
It was, in a sense, a release of tensions and cares, a flirting with danger, that helped to satisfy her body's craving for another kind of release. Or so it seemed to Banner. She felt free and stingingly alive, breathless with the excitement of her dangerous night ride.
The pounding hooves
behind her pursued, but she had no fear of their catching her. El Cid and Shadow were half- brothers, both sired by a racing Thoroughbred, but the Cid was just a touch faster, and he had the advantage of a lighter rider. And the racing fever was in his blood, just as it was in his rider's; born to fight any restraints or restrictions, the Cid was running wild.
Banner didn't realize she had lost control over her mount until she automatically tried to turn him away from a looming obstacle she never would have attempted even during daylight: a wicked four-rail fence bordering a sheer drop of several feet, at the bottom of which was the wide stream that ran through the plantation. Heart in her throat, sobered at last by sure disaster for herself and her beloved horse, Banner tried desperately to turn her racing mount away from that impossible jump. But the Cid had the bit between his teeth and was hell-bent on the impossible, refusing to heed even the commands of the only person he had ever obeyed.
Realizing the futility of trying to stop the horse, Banner swiftly considered and discarded the option of jumping off him. She wasn't overly worried about her ability to land safely; she'd taken too many tumbles in her life not to know how to land with the least risk to herself. What did worry her was the Cid. He was going to take that jump with her or without her; at least with her on his back, she might be able to keep him balanced enough to give him that vital extra chance of making it.
With only seconds to prepare, she hastily loosened the reins and grasped his mane as firmly as possible, leaning all her weight forward and using all the strength in her knees to hold her seat firm. Then she urged him on aloud, knowing that he would need every ounce of speed and determination to jump high enough and far enough to land on the far bank.
Like any incredible feat, it was over almost before it began. El Cid cleared the fence with a foot to spare, his powerful hind legs launching him with driving determination. Banner saw the flash of water passing far beneath them, felt the horse's forward velocity slow and his body stretch catlike in midair as he reached for the opposite bank of the stream. They were dropping, flying, falling.