Touch the Sun (22 page)

"Sir is it now?" He laughed low, then assumed an expression of perplexed concern. "It seems that barely a minute has passed since you named me a conceited fool. You have an enchanting facility for stationing yourself above or below me at will!"

She found herself smiling after him as he moved away from her toward the street, soon swallowed by the inky darkness.

"Until midnight...," he called softly, and she had no wish to argue.

* * *

Meagan had no intention of returning meekly to Mansion House to await Lion's pleasure. Alone again on the footpath, her nagging suspicions returned to plague her twofold, for Lion's casual response added to her apprehension.

His direction was southward, and Meagan lagged behind, watching the silhouette of his shoulders to mark his progress. Luckily, there were lamps lit where Fourth Street met Pine so that his change of route was readily apparent to her. His pace was quick and quiet and Meagan found herself lifting her skirts, nearly running to keep him in sight. At the corner, she crept up near a house to stay out of the lamplight. Searching, she saw Lion down the square, crossing the street near St. Peter's Church.

Then he disappeared from sight.

Fearful, Meagan came out of the shadows and pulled her hood closer about her face before following. Upon reaching the high brick wall that ringed St. Peter's churchyard, she stopped to listen, hoping to catch the sound and direction of his footsteps. Instead, she heard voices.

"What dire emergency has caused you to interrupt my dinner at Dr. Shippen's?" Lion's voice was low, but had a steely edge of anger. "Pray explain your reason for appointing Miss South as your messenger. Have your parents' servants all taken ill?"

Meagan could scarcely credit that their place of rendezvous could be a graveyard, but, peering around the brick wall at the entrance, she could see them standing among the ghostly white markers. In the darkness, the silver fox which trimmed Clarissa's pelisse fairly glowed.

"Lion, Lion," she was saying in a honeyed whisper, "do not berate me. I am a woman in love and we are a breed that needs no excuse for our actions."

"The devil you are! You had better have a damned good reason for your actions tonight and I want to hear it
now!"

He gripped her arm and for a moment, Meagan ignored their argument as she bent over and tiptoed inside the churchyard. She slipped from behind one gravestone to the next until Lion and Clarissa were only a few feet away.

"I was hoping you might be aware of your error by now and be ready to admit it without any help from me, but I can see that your pride has blinded you," Clarissa was saying in a cold voice. "Men are so obtuse. In the future you will thank me for taking matters into my own hands. Wait and see... I'll make you happy."

"For God's sake, what are you babbling about?"

"You're going to have to marry
me,
Lion. If you don't, I'll see your name become a joke in Philadelphia."

He gave a snort of derisive laughter. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Hardly, darling. As a matter of fact, I have sharpened them these past days keeping pace with you, your fiancée, and your little paramour."

"I tire of these word games. Show your hand."

"I saw you with that little harlot; naked, in broad daylight, in the schoolroom at Markwood Villa. You both made me sick!" She made a show of revulsion, but her voice was acid with jealousy. "You thought me a fool, telling me you were in love and betrothed, then betraying me not once but twice!"

"You had no hold on me! And I never pretended otherwise!"

"Well, I have a hold on you now, darling. I hear that you have purchased Markwood Villa... Do you suppose that your precious Priscilla would marry you and live there if she knew what had gone on? If you do not break with her and marry me, I shall see that the whole town knows that you bed your fiancée's serving-girl!"

Lion laughed out harshly and Meagan could see confusion flicker across Clarissa's face. "Were you planning to run an advertisement in the
Packet,
or perhaps the
Gazette?
Your silly threats do not move me."

Clarissa's soft lower lip went out as she stared at him bitterly. "We shall see, darling. Would it move you to learn that your little black-haired whore has been, shall we say,
removed
until you marry me? You wondered my reason for choosing her to walk the streets tonight on my errand. Even now, she is on her way out of the city and her captor awaits my word on her fate."

Meagan was so surprised at her words that she almost exclaimed aloud. Peeping over the headstone, she saw that Lion had gripped Clarissa's shoulders and now he shook her so hard that it seemed her neck would snap.

She saw Clarissa's right hand find its way inside the suspicious muff she carried and then silver flashed in the darkness.

"Unhand me, Lion! You see, I have outwitted you at every turn!"

The knife was held near his throat. Wildly, Meagan searched for a weapon and desperately grabbed a long stick. Jumping to her feet, she leaped forward and pressed the broken branch into the back of Clarissa's pelisse.

"Not quite," Meagan told her sternly, her voice sounding almost comically deep. "You have one of William Bingham's dueling pistols at your back so I would suggest that you surrender your weapon."

With an effort, Lion managed to suppress his amused disbelief at the scene being played out. He was ready to take Clarissa's knife and go home for a drink when she suddenly gave the screech of a wounded animal and turned on Meagan. Violet eyes big as saucers, the smaller girl tried to beat away the threatening knife with her stick. Lion got ahold of Clarissa's wrist and wrested the weapon from her hand, but not before she locked her elbow, bringing the blade up in a wide arc that left a jagged slash across the side of Meagan's cloak.

"You demented witch!" Meagan railed. "I am bleeding!"

Chapter 17

Through a warm amber haze, Meagan perceived a figure sitting near her. White stockings, close-fitting white breeches on lean, well-muscled legs outstretched with casual nonchalance toward the fire. White linen shirt, open to reveal a wide brown chest. White lace falling over dark, strong hands, one of which held a snifter of sorrel-hued brandy. Her eyelids dropped languorously before she could inspect the man's face and Meagan drifted back down into the comforting embrace of her dreams.

She was sixteen again, spending the summer of 1787 in Paris with her mother and father. They had mingled with Jefferson and John and Abigail Adams; William and Anne Bingham were in France as well, but Meagan barely glimpsed them. Her parents, as usual, left her to her own devices, so while they were seeking the company of the beautiful, celebrated Mrs. Bingham, Meagan was off on her own. Other girls her age were learning the stilted social graces, hovering about the fringes of the court at Versailles in hopes of snaring a titled husband. The only dashing Frenchman Meagan who intrigued Meagan that summer was a fencing instructor. Carefree and young, Michel was the possessor of a blinding smile, and he dressed all in white when he fenced. Meagan thought it a magnificent divertissement and persuaded him to teach her. She took her lessons wearing neat white breeches; her hair was pinned under a cap and she became "Marcel." The adventure, for Meagan, far surpassed any visit she paid to Versailles during that summer.

Her thick lashes fluttered again and she became aware of a hot pain along her left arm, near the shoulder. The white-clad figure leaned nearer and she smelled cognac.

"Michel?" she ventured groggily.

"Drink a bit of this, Meagan."

Obediently she parted her lips and tasted the liquor. Then more of it came into her mouth and she felt it burn her throat. Her arm felt hotter, but the pain numbed. She shook off the tendrils of her dreams, opening her eyes completely and straining to focus them.

Lion was smiling at her, his face just inches away, charismatically handsome in the glow of the fire. Meagan's eyes lingered on his exposed, well-remembered chest, then moved curiously to the source of her pain. Gauze was wrapped around her arm, covering almost the entire area between elbow and shoulder. Flecks of red showed against the white bandage.

"Goodness!" she murmured, managing a crooked smile.

"You lost some blood, but you'll be fine. Dr. Rush has taken excellent care of the wound, and luckily it was not deep."

"Did I... faint?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it? Truth to tell, I think it was due as much to excitement and an overdose of temper on your part as it was to your wound." Fond amusement infected his voice.

"Well, I'm relieved to see that you are not prostrate with worry. You conceal your anxiety most admirably, Captain Hampshire."

Lion grinned, then gave way to muffled laughter. Meagan glared at him until he finally gasped, "Sweeting, you are my greatest delight! Only you could produce such well-aimed barbs at a time like this!" He touched his fingers against her neck, curving his hand around the small, satiny column. Meagan trembled beneath his touch but managed to continue giving him what she felt was a cool stare.

"I only strive to emulate your unconcern."

Lion watched her silently for a moment and when he spoke again, his voice was gentler, deeper. "Do you imagine that I could laugh if you were seriously hurt? Only when I was assured that you were not in danger did my sense of humor return, and, believe me, all my amusement is born of affection. You were inimitably Meagan tonight, so endearingly comical—"

"Comical?" she echoed frostily, trying to ignore the caress of his hand against her neck.

"I'll admit that if I hadn't known better, I'd have sworn the whole episode was staged by Hallam and Henry's acting troop!" He could not repress a fresh guffaw, but managed to stifle it as she narrowed her eyes warningly. "All those dramatics of Clarissa's were ludicrous enough, but then
you
appeared out of nowhere, brandishing that silly stick!" He mimicked her voice. " 'You have one of William Bingham's dueling pistols at your back!'" Laughing again, he choked helplessly.

Meagan told him, "I hope you strangle."

"Now, now, there's been enough blood let tonight."

"Oh, yes—it's so easy to see the humor in a situation when you emerge unscathed!"

"I only wish you could have seen yourself—so tiny—flailing around with that cursed stick of yours! You couldn't have been more shocked when Clarissa mounted her attack!"

"It was fortunate that I was there to defend you," she commented bitingly, hoping to prick him.

Lion gave her a leisurely smile, eyes a-twinkle, and replied, "It was fortunate that you couldn't wait until midnight to see me, my love! If you hadn't been so eager for my company, Marcus Reems would have easily abducted you before you ever reached Mansion House!"

"Eager for your company! You conceited jackanapes!" She ignored his eyebrows flying up over dancing eyes. "I only followed you because I knew you were so puffed up with your own consequence that you would make a ridiculously easy target for sweet Clarissa. But would you thank me? I risked my life for you—"

Suddenly his face was perilously close to hers, his breath warm on her lips. "So you do care!" he murmured, eyes gleaming devilishly. "As for my ingratitude—never say that I am so puffed up with my own consequence that I could not manage to express my appreciation."

Strong arms enfolded her and her breasts pressed against his warm, broad chest before his lips found hers. Carefully, he avoided touching her bandaged arm as he kissed her, tasting the sweetness of her mouth as it opened beneath his own. Her heart beat wildly against him, then he felt her sigh deep inside and her tongue searched for his while her bare arms went up over his shoulders and around his neck.

A searing flash of pain withered Meagan's passion and she drew back sharply, moaning aloud. Lion was already bringing her arm down with gentle skill, looking for fresh blood. One or two more dots of crimson appeared against the bandage, but nothing more.

"Silly minx," he chided, and she blushed with shame at her abandon.

Dropping her eyes, she was aware for the first time of her lack of attire. She wore only her chemise and petticoats, and unfortunately the undergarment that covered her chest was one of her oldest. The batiste was still fresh, though sheer by its very nature, but the bodice was made for a sixteen-year-old form. Her breasts, flushed soft pink in the firelight, swelled above the lace trim, yearning to be free. Glossy ebony curls had slipped from their pins, lying in vivid contrast against her creamy neck and shoulders.

"What colossal nerve you have!" Meagan accused him, her arm forgotten again. "You could have at least put something around me for modesty's sake!"

"But I did!" He reached behind her, pulling a satin quilt over her shoulders. "You kept pushing it off while you slept and I finally decided to let you have your way."

Meagan pressed the down-filled comforter against her breasts and tried, with small success, to inch away from Lion. The settee they shared was designed for cozy intimacy.