Midsummer Moon (8 page)

"Oh, well,” he said airily, “not especially. I'd only advise you to stay up here for a week or so."

"I suppose I've done something very wrong,” she said in despair.

"Unusual, Merlin dear. Unusual."

"I wanted to see the wind vane."

"Yes, well, I realize that's one of our top attractions, but perhaps you might have asked for assistance before you tackled the summit. But there,” he added, as she squeezed her lips together to control their quivering, “it's not such a disaster as that. Don't cry, love..."

"Oh,” she said on a sudden, deep sob. “I want to go home!"

"Then you shall.” He circled her shoulders and drew her against him. “We shan't keep you prisoner here if you don't like it."

"Oh, yes, you will,” she mumbled, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “Ransom will. He kidnapped me."

The comforting weight on her shoulders lightened. “Did he now? I didn't think he was such a villain as that."

She hiccoughed. “Well, he is. He kidnapped me and broke my kite and now I have to give up my flying machine to w-work on his stupid s-speaking box. And look at them.” She pointed. “They're all
laughing
at me. I hate him! I want to go home."

Shelby was frowning. “Speaking box. What's that?"

"Oh, it's just a stupid thing I made so that I could stay in my laboratory and talk to Thaddeus when he was in the garden.” Merlin sniffed. “I wish I'd never thought of it. Ransom wants it for his war."

"Like a telegraph, do you mean?"

She licked a stray tear from the corner of her lips and sat up a little straighter. “No. I read about that—Monsieur Chappe's semaphore towers with the signaling arms? I thought that was very clever, but Thaddeus wouldn't learn the signals. So I made the speaking box, and I just talk to him."

"Just talk to him. Not shouting or anything?"

"No. The electricity carries my voice through the ether, you see. Sometimes it buzzes a lot, especially if Thaddeus won't stand still when I'm talking to him. But since I worked out how’ many turns to take on the coiled wire, it's not so bad."

"Hmm,” he said. “'Hmm."

"Ransom says the French have found out about it, so he kidnapped me."

"Yes. I begin to see the light.” Shelby's voice sounded odd. “It may be that he's right, Merlin. You might be safer here."

Merlin gave him a hurt look.

He smiled at her. “Come, what is it that you don't care for about the place? Look around—it's really rather nice. Pretty gardens, good food, lots of room to ride..."

"I don't know how to ride."

"Walk, then. Look at all those fields."

"Well,” she said doubtfully, “Ransom did say there was lots of open lawn for me to test my aviation machine."

"There, you see? And if I know my brother, he'll chop you down another couple of woods if you don't have enough space now. Where is your aviation machine? Have you brought it with you?"

"No. Ransom said he would have it transported. But he doesn't like it, so I'm afraid he won't."

Shelby shook his head. “Don't worry about that. If Damerell promises he will do a thing, he'll move Heaven and Earth to do it."

Merlin looked down at the waiting group below. Ransom stood a little away from the others. He seemed to be staring at the ground with passionate interest, his hands pressed over his temples like the blinkers on a carriage horse, as if he did not want to see beyond. She put her finger to her lower lip and worked at it, sniffing again.

"Merlin,” Shelby said softly, “don't go home. I'd like to be your friend."

She let out a shaky breath. “I suppose I could stay. For a little while. If my flying machine really comes, that is."

"It will.” He squeezed her hand. “Come down with me now, and I'll undertake to protect you from that ogre waiting for us below."

"He'll shout at me."

"Undoubtedly. But you must be brave, dear. He's been shouting at me all my life, and I'm still quite intact.” He shrugged and grinned. “Physically, at any event."

Merlin sighed. She gathered her nightgown around her legs and launched herself down the slope of the roof. Behind her, Shelby's cry of dismay broke off as she caught the Atlas's ankle and swung neatly around to land on the stone thistle.

Looking back, she saw him close his mouth with a snap. He hesitated and then waved jauntily down at the crowd below just before he matched her move with a slide and a catlike leap. He landed, slipped, and saved himself with one hand on the gilded crown. Cheers and shrieks drifted up from the ground below.

"Heigh-ho!” he cried. “I think I hear a bit of feminine concern for my well-being."

Merlin scrambled down the side of the thistle and walked to the balustrade. “Yes,” she said. “Two of the ladies have covered their eyes."

"Hah.” He jumped wide of the thistle, landing in perfect balance and eliciting another set of cries from below. “I appreciate this, my dear. It should raise my value immensely in certain quarters. I venture to say I'll be rescuing ladies morning and night from up here."

Before she climbed over the balustrade, she looked to see if he was following. He beckoned her back, and she let go of the stone railing and returned to where he stood in the shadow of the thistle.

"Merlin,” he said with soft, sudden emphasis. He took her hand and turned it over, palm up. “Do you keep your promises?"

"Yes,” she said. “Of course I do."

"Promise me one thing then, love. Promise me you won't tell anyone else—
anyone
—about the speaking box."

"Well—Thaddeus already knows. And Ransom."

"Thaddeus is your gardener?"

Merlin gave him a sheepish smile. “Thaddeus does everything I don't want to do."

"A fine fellow to have around. But you won't tell anyone else?"

"I suppose you mean because the French want to kidnap me?"

He squeezed her hand. “Promise?"

She hesitated and then nodded.

"Good.” He lifted her palm and placed a kiss in the middle of it, then rubbed it flat against his own. “Honor of a gentleman. And a lady. And Merlin"—he looked directly into her eyes—"believe me, I'll find out if you don't keep it. If you think you're in trouble now..."

Merlin bit her lip, a little unnerved by the sudden hardening of his friendly expression. He looked every bit as intimidating at that moment as Ransom had ever done. “All right. I promise."

He smiled, and his face changed like the sky on a windy day—from clouds to sunlight. He gave her a pat and light push toward the balustrade.

The climb down the scaffolding went faster than Merlin had anticipated. Long before she was ready, she found herself on the ground, surrounded by strangers: neatly uniformed servants and men and women in elegant dress. They all stared at her. There was a great deal of tittering and chuckling and speaking behind hands, and Merlin was glad when Shelby took her arm and brushed past them.

She was not so glad when she saw where he was taking her. A few yards apart, Ransom stood unmoving. He looked like one of his statues, marble-white and inhuman. Merlin set her feet and tried to pull away, but Shelby held her fast.

"Pay your accounts, love,” he murmured. “Believe me, I know what comes of putting them off."

She looked up into Ransom's eyes. There was not one trace of reason or understanding them. He made no greeting, spoke no word of reassurance, only grasped her arms and tore her out of Shelby's grasp. “Ransom—” Shelby said in a warning voice, but his brother gave no sign of hearing. When Ransom spoke, his voice was like the whisper of steel in a sheath, so low she could barely hear it.

"Come with me,” was all he said. The pain of his fingers made her arms go prickling and numb. He released her as suddenly as he'd taken hold and began walking away.

Merlin looked after him, dumb with terror. Her feet took her forward, puppetlike, because she could not conceive of what might happen if she did not obey.

They left the staring crowd behind. Ransom did not once turn back to see if she was following, not until they were inside the great house and through the arched passages and beyond the spiraling staircase. Not until he had jerked his head at a liveried footman and huge double doors had shut with a resonant thunder, closing them alone in a splendid room.

She was aware of glitter around her, of rich blues and golds and a bed whose canopy rose up like some giant beast from a fantasy tale. But it was Ransom she watched with unnerved fascination. He turned on her, and for an instant fear bound her as he reached for her hands.

Afterward, Merlin was not sure what she had expected. Violence of some kind, a punishing rage. His face promised that in its brutal intensity. She had scrunched herself smaller in anticipation of the noise and pain. But all that came was silence, except for the sound of his breathing, and the warm whisper of it on her skin as he clasped her hands between his and carried them to his mouth.

He stood for a long time with his eyes closed, rocking slightly, pressing her hands to his lips.

She looked up at him. Harsh lines edged his closed eyes. The skin across his cheekbones was white and taut. He just stood there, not speaking, clinging to her hands until her fingers throbbed with the pressure of his grip.

If he had done as she expected, raged and shouted and bullied her, she would have pulled away from him. She would have knotted herself up in a ball and withdrawn and when her chance had come, she would have run away. But to see him like this, reduced to this terrible silence...

"I'm sorry,” she said in a trembling voice. “Ransom, I didn't mean to..."

Her words trailed off into confusion. She was sorry—for what, she did not understand. Obviously she should not have climbed the roof. Obviously everyone thought it was quite criminal and peculiar. They had laughed, all those elegant strangers. They had laughed at her, and therefore in a way at Ransom, because he had brought her here. Within an hour of arriving, she had disgraced him. And Ransom was not a man who would easily tolerate disgrace.

"I want to go home,” she said miserably. “Would you let me go home?"

He took a deep breath. Like someone waking up, he opened his eyes and closed them briefly. His hold on her hands loosened.

Merlin tried to straighten her numbed fingers. He lowered them, but kept them between his palms. His hands shook a little as he laced them with hers.

"Merlin, I can't send you home.” His voice sounded hoarse and unlike himself. “It's too dangerous."

"But—” She wanted to argue, only she had no arguments that could possibly match his. There was a lump the size of an egg on Thaddeus's head to prove his words. She looked up into Ransom's eyes and said, “
Please.
"

"I can't.” He rubbed his thumbs across her hands in a jerky motion. His mouth had a distraught twist to it that gave his face a queer look, like hard stone crumbling. “Merlin, don't. Don't ask me anymore."

It sounded more a plea than a command. Merlin hung her head, defeated by that. His arrogance could be resisted. But when he spoke to her with such a tone in his voice, there was nothing to do ... nothing but move into his arms and remain there, with her heart feeling weak and foolish and her body wanting his closer.

She felt him go tense as she pressed herself nearer. He let go of her hands, and then seemed not to know what to do with his own. “Merlin,” he whispered. “Ah, Merlin. Have a little mercy. Do you think I'm made of iron?"

She shook her head.

"No.” He made the word a bitter sound. “I suppose you know better than anyone that I'm not."

Beneath her cheek she could feel his heart, a strong and excited beat that belied his stiff resistance. “I think I've forgotten what you're made of,” she said. “Perhaps I'd better examine you again."

He exhaled in a hollow whoosh. “Damnation,” he said in a different tone, a kind of plaintive resignation.

Merlin snuggled closer. His embrace enfolded her, drawing her hard against him. His cheek rested on her hair. He stroked her back in a rhythm that was at first simple comfort and then, with a slow drift downward, something more.

It started as only the heat of his palm through her dressing gown. He spread his hand across her spine and began to outline tantalizing circles on the small of her back.

She tilted her head up, recognizing this for what it was. His cheek slid against hers, very smooth, smelling faintly of soap and mint. His arms tightened, just slightly. Sweet and subtle, the touch of his breath on her neck became a light kiss.

Merlin sighed, curving her neck with all the pleasure of a cat stretching beneath a stroking hand. Her lips parted. She held her breath. It was like the brush of rose petals on her skin, like the beat of a captive bird's wing, but more than that. Warmer. Stronger. She made a small sound of aching pleasure.

"What a shameless hussy you are,” he whispered, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “What am I going to do with you?"

She bit her lip, pulling back in mild surprise. “Oh, dear.
You
haven't forgotten?"

"Don't look so dismayed.” He looked down at her with a sleepy, sensual grin. His hands moved down her back, rocking her against him. “I haven't forgotten, Wiz. I remember all too well."