Wright, Cynthia

by Touch the Sun

  Speechless, Meagan stood up, and Clarissa hurried over to her. Her large blue eyes were sparkling with some emotion that Meagan could not put a name to.

  "Miss South, I am asking—begging—for your assistance!"

  "Whatever for? I don't understand—"

  "There is an emergency. I have desperate need of Lion Hampshire and I want you to take a message to him immediately."

  "Me? But—"

  "No time can be spared for explanations. Suffice it to say that I trust you—and know that you alone can persuade him to meet me." Momentarily, her eyes narrowed almost malevolently, but it passed so quickly that Meagan wondered if it were her imagination. "By that, of course, I mean that Lion trusts you also," Clarissa finished hastily.

  "Well..."

  "Thank you! This means so very much to me. Go now to Dr. Shippen's house and instruct Lion that he must meet me at once, at our usual spot."

  Meagan flinched slightly at the words, but for some undefinable reason she felt compelled to do Clarissa's bidding. "As you say, ma'am. But, where does Dr. Shippen live?"

  "His house stands on the corner of Fourth and Locust Streets, barely a square away. The side presented to the street will seem to be four stories tall, for it is the chimney end. Now, do fetch your wrap and make haste!"

  ***

  Polished silver cutlery clattered against fine Queens-ware china as, up and down the long table, well-known dinner guests divided their attention between the sumptuous meal and high-spirited discussion. Few houses in the world could have boasted such an assemblage; the dining room nearly burst with stimulations for any mind and eye. Such handsome people! Their clothing was the finest, the richest to be found, their faces were among those best known in America, and all lesser citizens longed to be privy to conversations such as were taking place among them.

  Lion smothered a yawn and knitted his blond eyebrows as he listened to the familiar sound of William Bingham's voice reaching its fever pitch.

  "Would you, my dear Mr. Madison, demean our highest office before the rest of the world? All other countries have kings! Would you lessen their respect for our own supreme leader by giving him such a plain, common title?"

  Across the table, Chief Justice Thomas McKuan gave a snort of agreement. "Mr. President, indeed!"

  James Madison remained unruffled as the target of their arguments. His clear, intelligent eyes held the hint of a smile as he replied evenly, "My good friends, have we not agreed before this day that what we seek is a new direction? We fought a long and bloody war to free ourselves of a king and all the pompous posturings that the word implies. I am certain that more careful consideration will bring you to the realization that the simple title of 'Mr. President' will lend that new office a purity of strength and dignity." He coaxed them gently. "In any case, we are all aware that mere words are not important in comparison with the spirit of the young government and the man who will head it. Might we now toast him together, uniting in our common hope for a bright future as free Americans?"

  Lion warmed under Madison's prose, silently renewing the strength of his own ambition to someday work beside such a man.

  Fragile, cut-crystal goblets were raised, catching the glittering rays of light from the chandelier, and voices rang out in spirited unison. "Long live our President!"

  Lion grinned at William Shippen, who sat at an angle from him, and took a long drink of wine. A tap on his shoulder interrupted that pleasure and he set down the goblet, turning his head curiously.

  Cyrus, the family's Negro butler, stood there looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Mister Hampshire, there is someone in the hallway who insisted I fetch you. I hope I've done right."

  In the entryway, Meagan waited nervously. There were more possibilities for discovery here than she dared count. Even Mrs. Shippen loomed as a potential traitor, for she was originally a Lee from Virginia, sister to Richard Henry and Frances Lightfoot, two of the state's most illustrious citizens. The Lees had visited at her own home often, and she had met Alice Shippen at the Lees' Stratford Hall more than once.

  At any moment someone could come into the hall... Meagan jumped, violet eyes wide, as a tall figure strode through the arched doorway. "Lion!" she gasped in relief.

  Bathed in the golden luster from the lantern-like chandelier overhead, he towered above her like some great bronzed god. As she gathered her wits, Meagan perceived that an amused smile tugged at the corner of his handsome mouth and when he spoke, laughter infected his voice.

  "My sweet, yesterday you struck a powerful blow to my confidence with your cruel words and actions, but to know that you have missed me so sorely as to seek me out here lightens my heart more than I can say."

  As his words sank in, Meagan's eyes narrowed and she set her hands upon her hips. "You conceited fool, the day that I can destroy your confidence will give me much cause to rejoice!" Taking a step away from the powerful force of his attraction, she admonished, "Now be serious. I have not come here to trade quips with you!"

  "I accept your apology," he grinned, white teeth gleaming against his dark face. "You may explain this happy visit."

  With an effort, she repressed an urge to put him in his place, but his last words returned the worried frown to her brow.

  "I had a visit tonight from Clarissa." She cast an uneasy glance toward the dining room entrance as a chorus of laughter swelled from within. "Could we talk outside? I shouldn't like the Binghams to see me here—"

  "Of course. I am as anxious for a moment alone in the moonlight as you are."

  Warningly, she swatted his arm lightly as he opened the front door, and Lion chuckled aloud.

  "What a dull evening it was till you appeared, my minx!"

  The house opened onto Locust Street, and Lion drew her over against the iron railing which ran around to the garden gate. Meagan was noticing his handsome garb, admiring the rich smoky velvet and the way it flattered him. She saw that he watched her, one brow lifted as though he read her mind, and she snatched her hands from his and scolded, "I am not your minx!"

  "My mistake," he grinned, folding his arms across his chest. "Well?"

  She backed against the Flemish bond bricks of the house, plucking nervously at the English ivy which clung there.

  "Your dear Clarissa bade me fetch you to your 'usual spot'," her eyes were purple with venom. "She made a great show of distress, but Lion, I only took her message in the hope that I might dissuade you from going."

  "As jealous as that?"

  "Do stop! I am serious! I have a feeling—and you may laugh at my instincts at your own risk, sir! She means you harm."

  In her desire to make him listen, she came out of the shadows to lay her hand on his arm. He put his own over it, caressing its softness with his thumb.

  "Meagan, do you doubt my ability to defend myself against some righteous female who imagines herself scorned? You must not judge me much of a man!"

  She sighed in frustration. "It is not that—"

  "I think it is time this mystery you have concocted around Clarissa was solved. I would not have you spending sleepless nights worrying over my safety!" He brushed a dark curl from her temple and Meagan went weak at his touch. "I will let you know that I am well. I will come to your window at midnight."

  She longed to deny her concern, but the words would not come. Instead, she implored, "Please, don't go."

  For a moment, the world was forgotten as their eyes met and held. The quarter moon slid from behind a luminous cloud, recasting the spell in Stardust.

  Meagan somehow pulled her eyes from his brilliant blue gaze, but relented to her heart enough to touch slender fingers against his cheekbone. "Take care."

  A reckless grin spread across his face, gleaming in the darkness, and he turned against her hand so that his mouth grazed its tender palm.

  "So, little one, you would not have me gone so far from your life as that?"

  She blushed at the reminder of her words spoken the day before. "I would never wish yo
u harm, sir."

  " '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 unworried, casual mien added to her apprehension.

  His direction was southward, and Meagan lagged behind, watching the bright gleam of his hair 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 his shining gold hair 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 steel edge of anger. "Pray explain your reason for appointing Meagan 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 hell 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 bitch! 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 bought 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.

  Meagan 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 Seventeen

  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 covered with gilt hair. 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 rich, handsome husband. The only dashing Frenchman Meagan met that summer, or at least the only one who intrigued her, 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 used her allowance to pay for her lessons, which she took 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, coal-black 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 burnished glow of the fire. Blond hair gleamed against his tanned face and at the base of his throat where
his shirt was open. 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 this." A long brown finger indicated the injured arm and Meagan saw that he was doing a poor job of hiding his amusement.

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

  Lion grinned, ivory teeth flashing in the firelight, then gave way to muffled laughter. Meagan glared at him until he finally gasped, "Sweetheart, 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 softer, 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 sensuous 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 Meagan narrowed her amethyst 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 and Meagan told him, "I hope you strangle."