Spring Blossom Page 4

  He knew she was crying now. “Maggie,” he said again as he turned her into his arms and held her lightly against his chest. “I’m sorry, little one. I’ve been a fool.”

  “No!” she returned fiercely, struggling against her tears because she did not want to disappointment him. She hated this lack of sophistication. Surely a true woman would not carry on so. She wanted him to remember her as happy and pretty and instead he would have a vision of her ugly, damp face. She tore herself from his arms and stepped back a pace; a pace too far.

  As she teetered back, Maggie reached out, grabbing desperately for his hand. But her sudden, frantic movements pulled Hunter off balance and they both ended up in the pond.

  Maggie landed on her back, as did Hunter, who twisted away so as not to fall on top of her and drive her deeper under the water. Gaining enough control to sit up, Maggie watched him struggle to right himself. The astonished look on his face when he turned her way sent her into fits of laughter.

  Finally seeing the humor of it all, Hunter gave in and joined her, even as Maggie threw herself at his chest, almost choking him when her arms went around his neck. “Oh, Maggie,” he said, still laughing, “I will miss you.”

  Maggie’s cheek settled firmly against his as she responded. “I’m going to grow up, Hunter Maguire,” she breathed, “and you are going to miss all of that.”

  In that moment, Hunter made the decision he felt he would never regret; he would speak to Alastair Downing about the man’s eldest daughter before he left.

  CHAPTER 5

  Treemont Farm, 1883

  The tree-lined road to Treemont mansion had not changed a great deal. The oaks were older, of course, as was he. The crushed-stone path was a neat as he remembered and the red brick edifice in the distance appeared the same. But the columns and dormers seemed more gray than white as the sun concentrated its beams there. Beyond the oaks, the brush had sprouted up, adding to the deep shadows along the lengthy route.

  Hunter Maguire pressed the soles of his booted feet firmly into the stirrups, stretching his long muscular legs by almost standing in the saddle. The journey from his home near the James River had been tedious, although not overly long. He knew what had really made him weary was making the decision to return to Treemont or not. He had tossed the idea around for weeks. In fact, the idea had crossed his mind numerous times over the years since his last visit; mainly because of his ongoing curiosity about Maggie and how she may have changed. But, being perfectly honest, he was in the market for a good stallion. So far his trip had been profitable and he did not doubt that Alastair would have some good stock to add to those he had already chosen. A great stallion to match the two excellent mares already on their way to his home would top off the trip perfectly.

  He relaxed once again in the saddle. Soon he would enjoy a thirst-quenching drink and, he hoped, a long hot bath.

  Over the years Hunter had corresponded with Alastair Downing occasionally with the result an open invitation to visit Treemont again had been extended only a few months ago. Curiosity, as much as the desire to find a champion stallion had fostered Hunter’s decision to return; obviously if the bright, delightful Maggie had not totally left his memories during their time apart, he could not turn his back without knowing the woman she had become. Clearly Maggie’s spark for living had touched him in a way no other woman had. Alastair had not mentioned her in all this time, so she could be married for all he knew. But the sudden invitation to visit Treemont had raised his curiosity.

  Margaret drew herself up as thin and tall as possible in order to remain unobserved, although she was certain the thunder of her rapidly beating heart would reveal her presence.

  She’d heard the muted clip-clop of a horse’s hooves and, though it was childish, she was hiding behind a tree. She frowned and considered why she was really hiding as Hunter Maguire rode by her secret place. He had taken her by surprise, of course. That was the major reason. She just had not expected to see him so suddenly and she was not prepared for a meeting.

  Maggie peered around the tree at his retreating back. He sat his horse proudly and confidently. His finely tailored coat moved slightly as he swayed with the rhythm of the horse’s movements. He was still as fine an equestrian as she remembered. And that was a problem; she remembered him too well and too fondly.

  She ducked back behind the tree, frowning as she quickly looked about for an escape route. But when she dared to look up the road again, he had vanished.

  Sensing danger of exposure, Maggie moved deeper into the oaks where the shadows were darkest. The last thing she wanted was to meet him here beside the lane, before she had time to prepare herself to face him.

  She darted to the safety of the next tree.

  *

  Hunter had ducked between two giant oaks and tied his horse at the edge of the high brush. He then backtracked under cover of the scrub until he could emerge near the spot where he had spotted the spy. He had caught only a glimpse of a hat brim as he rode by and had calculated the person to be short…either that or the man was squatting low as he watched.

  Coming out from the thick underbrush, however, he saw no one as he looked amongst the trees. It appeared his daylight stalker had moved on.

  Hunter cautiously stepped out onto the gravel surface of the road, his eyes darting from left to right. No one was in sight. Perhaps he was so tired he was imaging things. Perhaps what he had thought was a hat brim had been a tree limb or a clump of shadowed moss.

  Shrugging his shoulder, he started walking back to his mount when suddenly the horse charged out onto the road from between the trees. Hunter stopped in his tracks, his mouth falling open in amazement. His horse was being ridden by a man in a black hat, black breeches and a white shirt!

  Horse and rider raced up the road toward the house, bits of cut stone flying upward in their wake. The man could be admired for his horsemanship, Hunter thought, as he watched his transportation fleeing. But then his thoughts turned far less charitable. He now had one hell of a long walk ahead of him!

  As the figure grew smaller, Hunter once again halted in his tracks. The rider’s hat flew off in the wind and long, white-blond hair billowed out behind her.

  Her!

  He grinned slowly as he realized he had been duped; duped by a small woman, at that. “Maggie,” he said softly. Strangely, her trick amused him despite his weariness and the long walk ahead. She’d obviously lost none of her fire.

  When he finally reached the house, he knocked on the door, prepared to wait a moment or two for someone to traverse the large foyer. He imagined Maggie was still at the stables, so he didn’t expect anyone to answer promptly. Waiting, he turned, frowning at the bubbled and split paint on the columns that supported the roof over Treemont’s wide front porch. The old house obviously needed painting.

  The scraping of wood on wood drew his attention back to the portal and he turned, smiling down into the face of a slim young girl who blushed when his eyes met hers. “Hello,” he said softly.

  “Mr. Maguire?” she asked, and he nodded. “Papa is expecting you,” she added shyly and stepped back, pulling the door wide in invitation.

  She was a girl of about thirteen, he decided. “Let me see,” he drawled with a teasing note. “You must be Florence.”

  The girl nodded eagerly and dropped her eyes. “If you will be seated in the parlor, Mr. Maguire, I shall let Papa know you’ve arrived.”

  The entrance to the house was bright, airy and elegant, its polished rosewood banister and wall panels reflected in the white tile stairs and floor. Hunter glanced briefly up at the curved staircase that led to the second floor, relieved that the interior of the house appeared to be in good condition. The disrepair of the exterior of the house had concerned him.

  Hunter entered the spacious front parlor, noticing that little had changed in the décor. But he looked only briefly around the room for his eyes were drawn once again to the portrait above the mantel, just as they had been three years
ago.

  And he envisioned Maggie looking exactly like this now.

  “If my Margaret were still alive I would have to keep my eye on her with you about,” Alastair proclaimed from the doorway.

  Hunter laughed and turned around, extending his hand in greeting as he walked toward the other man. “You would, Alastair. For a certainty.”

  The older man raised his eyes briefly to the portrait as he always did when he entered this particular room, but then, in a heartbeat, he gave his full attention to his guest. “Welcome, Hunter. I hope your journey has been a pleasant one?”

  “Profitable so far,” and then he teased, “We’ll see what you can do to ravage the remainder of it.”

  Pretending to be affronted, Alastair Downing drew himself up to his full, elegant height, which left him half a head shorter than Hunter. “I understood you were seeking a good stallion.”

  “Yes. But not at the expense of you owning my last shirt!”

  Alastair cuffed his guest on the shoulder. “Ungrateful pup!” But then he laughed. “Come to my study. Perhaps I can soften you up before we strike any bargains.”

  Once seated comfortably, brandy in hand, Hunter took a moment to study his host; Alastair was still a fine looking man, but some of his former vibrancy was missing.

  Alastair settled back in his chair, crossing his knees as his gaze traveled quickly over his guest in a like inspection. Hunter hand changed little; he had matured, perhaps but the man was as strong and fit-looking as ever, and his features had become almost aristocratic. The one change Alastair did note was a certain sadness in the dark eyes; or perhaps it was something that came with maturity. “All is right with you?” he asked.

  Hunter smiled. “Fine, Alastair. And you?”

  The older man nodded, smiling ruefully, but Hunter had an odd sense that something was not at all right with his friend.

  “Times are good, and my daughters are driving me mad,” Alastair said lightly, belying Hunter’s concerns. “All appears right with the world.”

  Hunter laughed at the derisiveness in his friend’s voice. “The girls cannot be as bad as that. They are practically grown by now.”

  Alastair leaned forward, as if in conspiracy. “Trust me, my friend; if you ever have daughters, you should know that they become more difficult with each passing year.”

  Chuckling, Hunter said, “I’ll remember that.”

  Settling back, Alastair studied the younger man. “Perhaps you do have a daughter or two by now? I failed to ask.”

  Hunter shook his head.

  “No sons? No daughters? A wife, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “Well, your time will come, without doubt.”

  Obviously they were both skirting the issue of Maggie.

  Suddenly Alastair’s tone changed abruptly as another thought struck and he knew he had to speak on the matter. “I was sorry to learn of your mother’s passing, Hunter. She was a fine woman.”

  Hunter sat forward, studying the glass that rested loosely between his cupped hands. “She was a remarkable woman, and I am not the only one who misses her.” He straightened then, determined to lighten the mood. “I believe her only regret was that I had not married and given her grandchildren.” He smiled at the thought, for he and his mother had engaged in some heated discussions on the matter. But all of Rebecca’s attempts at matchmaking had failed, for Hunter had been too intent on his work and improving their lot in life.

  “And who is minding your affairs while you gallivant around the country?” Alastair asked.

  More relaxed now, Hunter sat back. “A good and very old friend of my parents. You may have heard them mention Jason Longstreet. He managed the farm for Mother for years while I was in England. He stayed on after I returned home, at my request.”

  “And you’ve waited too long to visit us again,” Alastair said sincerely.

  “It’s been three years. I recall our last discussion. We agreed…” Hunter stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly aware that Alastair had paled and seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Alarmed, he set his glass aside and sat forward in his chair. “Are you all right, man?”

  But Alastair was shaking his head, holding up one hand to signal that Hunter should remain seated. “Fine,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm. “It’s just that…perhaps I should have written to you, but…” Looking directly into the young man’s eyes, he blurted guiltily, “You will find Margaret greatly changed, Hunter.”

  Frowning, Hunter reached for his snifter of brandy again. “I expected her to change, Alastair. She hadn’t reached her sixteenth birthday when I last visited.”

  Alastair was now looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  When the man did not immediately respond, Hunter prodded, “I expect Maggie has become a very beautiful young woman by now.” But his smile disappeared when Alastair looked at him sadly.

  “Indeed she has,” he said softly. “Almost as beautiful as her dear mother. But…” He took a hearty pull of brandy before staring directly at Hunter again. “I believe I should warn you; Margaret was involved in an…accident of sorts, about a year ago.”

  Hunter was growing concerned about the direction this conversation was taking, and his frustration level was not particularly stable, either. “I don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me? What sort of accident?”

  Shifting uncomfortably, Alastair began choosing his words carefully. “I would prefer that Margaret explain the details. Perhaps once the two of you have had some time to renew your acquaintance…” He held up a hand when Hunter was about to interrupt. “I admit be being deliberately evasive, my friend, but I have my reasons and I hope you will come to understand. I do want to warn you, however, that Margaret is scarred.”

  Hunter stared silently, feeling as if his gut had just turned to stone. “She was badly injured, then?” he asked softly and felt a slight lessening of the pressure in his chest when Alastair shook his head.

  “The scar is relatively small,” he said, “but there are greater wounds.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Dressed only in a soft, sheer shift that accented her young woman’s curves, Margaret Downing stood before the open doors of her clothespress and rummaged through the multitude of gowns there before selecting a garment suitable for the occasion.

  Holding the gown aloft she frowned, first over her decision and then over the few wrinkles in the skirt. Dropping the gown to the floor, she paced to the open window and stared out over the neatly clipped lawns of her beloved Treemont.

  Hunter Maguire had returned to her home. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that; certainly, she was strangely unsettled. But she would be in control of her faculties by the time evening arrived and she descended to the parlor to meet him for the first time in three years. Margaret had become a master at controlling her thoughts and emotions over the past year and tonight would be no different. Many men came to visit her father to negotiate the sale of crops or horses, and Margaret had dealt with them all when they anticipated the possibility of more; in spite of her previous feelings toward him when she was a girl, Hunter Maguire would be no different.

  Then why did her insides feel as if she had eaten too many green apples?

  Striding back across the thick oriental carpet, Margaret took her thoughts firmly in hand, scooped up the gown she had left lying in an ice-blue puddle on the floor, and opened the door of her room, intending to call for Anna. To her surprise, she was met by the grinning, freckled face of her youngest sister.

  “He’s here!” nine-year-old Jennifer grinned up at her. “I came to tell you.”

  “I know he’s here.” Margaret frowned and looked down the wide corridor in both directions. “Where is Anna?”

  Jennifer’s eyes lost some of their happy shine, but her smile remained as she boldly entered her sister’s room and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Somebody stole his horse?” she piped lustily and then laughed. “He had a really long walk up the road.” She eyed her ol
der sister with curiosity. These days Margaret seldom smiled, but Jennifer knew she used to be fun and she often played tricks on strangers. “Have you seen Mr. Maguire’s horse?” she asked.

  Margaret frowned at the girl. “Now, what would I want with another horse? We have a barn full of horses.” The twinkle in her eye told Jennifer all she wanted to know and she grinned up at her idol until Margaret’s manner changed. “He should take better care,” she said snidely.

  Jennifer frowned, getting to her feet. “What’s wrong, Maggie?”

  Margaret held the blue gown up, more agitated than Jennifer had seen her in a very long time. “What’s wrong?” Margaret parroted. “Look at this gown. It was put away wrinkled and there's a smudge near the hem. I can’t wear this. Anna should be here,” she continued impatiently. “She knows I have to see to the running of the house and the farm. I can’t be expected to do everything. I asked her to prepare this gown and look at it,” she repeated, waving the dress angrily. “I can’t even trust her to see to a simple task.”

  Jennifer was often puzzled by Margaret’s abrupt leap from being reasonable to being completely shrewish but she tried to soothe her sister. “She has extra chores today and you know she has to do all of the cooking now.”

  “Father should never have let the cook go,” Margaret muttered.

  Jennifer had wondered about that, but she shrugged her bony shoulders as her sister paced the room.

  “Anna is not attending to her duties,” Margaret continued harshly. “Father should have let her go and kept the cook!”

  “And then we would have even more chores to do. At least Anna helps with the cleaning.”

  Margaret whirled to face the girl, her anger reaching its peak. “Well, we need more help in this house?”

  Jennifer tried to puzzle out the possible reasons for Margaret’s bad temper, knowing that when she was this irritated it was best to leave her alone. It was definitely time to go. “I didn’t fire the servants, Maggie,” she said quietly and fled the room.