Wright, Cynthia

by Touch the Sun

  Lion smiled miserably, searching for the right words. "Ah—actually, I do want to talk to you about this. You see—" he loosened his cravat "—the fact is, the girl you met was not Priscilla. I mean, there is a Priscilla and we are betrothed, but I don't love her. Worse, I can barely endure her company."

  Franklin's pale brows were raised in his high forehead; his expression combined gentle, amused tolerance with sharp concern. "I gather that you can endure the company of the mysterious young lady I met?"

  Lion began to pace. "I did not set out to deceive you in this matter. I meant to introduce her to you correctly, but you assumed... and she seemed to cheer you up..."

  "She was delightful." There was a meaningful pause. "Who was she?"

  Lion clenched his fist. "Her name is Meagan South. She was Priscilla's lady's maid. She traveled with us from West Hills."

  Slowly, then, Lion divulged the truth, one painful fact at a time, until the whole story was made known to Dr. Franklin. He finished by relating the events of the past week.

  "Somehow, it has changed. The bargain we struck, I mean. The anger and determination are gone... I'm certain that she loves me, and it's as if she's resigned to it, but I am uneasy about the way she behaves."

  "Are you worried that she still won't agree to be your mistress?"

  "I don't know!" The hard muscular outline of Lion's back showed through his coat as he pressed his hands against the door frame. "She screamed and fought like a tiger the day of the storm. We had an argument. Christ, I was furious at some of the things she said to me! She was unfair, but I was worse, I suppose—I forced her, I wanted to teach her a lesson, but she wouldn't give in.

  "Anyway, in the end, we spent hours together in that bed, waiting out the storm. After she quit fighting me, it was as if she were on fire. We both were. We still are—it's like being consumed by hell and heaven all at once." He looked back to the bed, turning tortured eyes on Franklin. "Do you know what I mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, for God's sake, what am I going to do?" Lion began to pace again, but the older man remained calm.

  "Obviously, you are aware of your choices."

  "I'm telling you that I am in no condition to analyze this situation objectively!"

  "All right, then, let me assist you. First, we both know that in view of your own beginnings, it would be fatal politically speaking for you to marry a serving-girl. Could you give up your career dreams for Meagan? And I don't mean just for this month or year. Could you forfeit your plans for the rest of your life and not regret the decision or resent her?"

  "Why don't you stop asking questions I can't answer and give me some advice, damn it! You are the one who pushed me into this fiasco with Priscilla!"

  "Lion, you are certainly imposing, blazing like that over me, but you should know better than to try intimidating me into accepting the guilt or responsibility for your situation. You are very much an adult. You could have married any woman you chose, but you made the decision to avoid a love match, not I. Just because you had no proof of love's reality, you denied its existence. The lesson has been cruelly learned, n'est-ce pas?"

  Lion did not answer. His face was averted once more, his body absolutely taut.

  "I would not make the same mistake again by giving you more advice. I can only help you see the questions you must answer before a choice can be made. Those answers, and the ultimate decision, must be yours alone."

  Lion turned back and their eyes met. Compassion soothed pain.

  Finally, Dr. Franklin spoke again, softly. "I cannot influence you, my boy. We are different people and you must not live your life by my rules or inclinations. There is one bit of wisdom I will pass on. This was written by the late husband of Madame Helvétius. He said that 'by annihilating the desires, you annihilate the mind. Every man without passions has within him no principle of action, no motive to act.'

  "So, it is up to you to decide which of your passions is stronger—more important. Apparently, you will be denied the pleasure of satisfying them both."

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The scene that evening in the Binghams' card room was cozy and civilized—on the surface. Anne and William were engaged in a rare game of whist, but Anne's long fingernails clicked nervously on the table-top as she watched Priscilla.

  Marcus Reems was watching her as well, seated on the same tapestry-covered sofa where Lion had kissed her so savagely. Priscilla was upset tonight; possibly just angry enough to act in haste. She moved agitatedly around the room, stopping at different windows, fingering the drapes as she peered outside. Marcus's tiger eyes were cunningly alert, glowing with pleasure as he perceived the last pieces of his plan falling so effortlessly into place. It is almost too easy, he thought.

  Their game done, William and Anne left the room to kiss their children goodnight. Marcus was careful in his nonchalant silence, watching Priscilla take one last look outside.

  "Were you hoping for a visit from Lion?"

  She spun around, surprised and confused. "What? Why, no! At least—well, it would certainly seem proper! Even though I wrote him that I would be too busy to see him for a long time, he might have protested a bit, don't you think?" Her voice broke, and Marcus was on his feet silently, putting his strong arms around her as the first tear escaped.

  "Darling Priscilla, how I despise him for treating you so shabbily! You deserve so much more. I could kill him for hurting you this way!"

  Priscilla turned wet emerald eyes up to him and allowed her lower lip to tremble. His reaction was all she could wish for. "Oh, Marcus, I simply don't understand why he should be so cruel to me! What have I done?" She sobbed sweetly against his broad chest. "Do you know, tomorrow is his birthday and I have had a present ready for over a week. I bought him the handsomest pearl stickpin for his stock... I thought we could make up our differences if he would promise me to send Meagan away." She paused to sniffle delicately into Marcus's snowy handkerchief. "I could never admit this to anyone but you... but I have not had so much as a note from Lion for days and days. I was so certain that he would come tonight—that he would invite me to share his birthday—"

  "My darling, it is wrong of me to say it, but I cannot help myself! Seeing you in such pain—all because of that villain—makes me wild with rage. My sweet, I cannot allow you to marry such a cad. I love you, Priscilla! I will soon be as wealthy as Lion. With you beside me, I shall overtake him immediately! Please—" He kissed her with studied tenderness. "Please, my love, say that you will be my wife. You deserve a man who loves you as I do... and Lion deserves the ruin this will bring to him!"

  Priscilla was faint with emotion. She had tried so hard and long to make Lion respond to her as Marcus did. Such success at last was dizzying.

  "Yes! Oh, yes, Marcus!"

  They kissed for several minutes; Priscilla was lightheaded with power.

  "It is terrible of me to do this to Lion, but as you say, he deserves it. Besides, he will have Meagan now. I'm certain she will finally come forward with the truth—"

  "What truth?" Marcus nibbled on one soft alabaster ear.

  "Why, the truth about who she is! But, that's right —I never told you! Why, Meagan's surname isn't South at all; it's Sayers!" Priscilla giggled, but Marcus's face had frozen to stone. She turned back to the parted drapes, seeming to see past the streets off

  Society Hill to the plantations of Fairfax County, her face softer than it had been in weeks. "You see, Meagan's daddy was richer than mine—her blood is bluer. She's related to titles in England. But, Mr. Sayers spent his money by the bucket—not that he was any different from all the other rich men in Virginia. Meagan's mama had the best of everything; her parties were famous, her home was more beautiful than any house I ever saw... except this one, of course!

  "But then, Mr. and Mrs. Sayers died last year, and Meagan took the punishment for their extravagance. Pecan Grove, their plantation, was going to be sold to pay the debts... every last rug and chair and slave. Meagan wa
s supposed to go north to Boston to live with some old aunt, but she came running to West Hills—"

  "Don't tell me the two of you knew each other!" Marcus ejaculated.

  "Don't be silly! We were best friends." She continued to look out over the darkened rooftops. "Not really. We were more like sisters who didn't get along very well. I never understood Meagan; she was as outrageous and rebellious as an unbroken horse. Only she could have masqueraded as a maid to keep from going to live with that aunt..." Priscilla felt a strange lump form in her throat and it was necessary for her to swallow a few times before her voice returned. "It was all her idea. She nearly forced me to go along with it. I can't be responsible for the mess she's made!"

  She looked back to find Marcus watching her broodingly and attempted a lighthearted smile. "Well, perhaps she and Lion are right for each other, just as you are right for me. Thank the good Lord we all found out before it was too late!"

  Priscilla clung to Marcus's shoulders again, searching out his lips, but his response was suddenly distant.

  ***

  Lion spent his thirty-third birthday at Markwood Villa with Meagan. It had never crossed his mind to visit his fiancée; already he dreaded having to take her to Gray's Garden the next day to view Washington's arrival.

  In the meantime, he and Meagan took a long walk through the budding woods around the villa and ate a picnic lunch on the garden lawn. Meagan wore a simple frock of clover-sprigged muslin, its wide leaf-green sash tied at one side. The neckline was cut deep to reveal ivory breasts occasionally obscured by glossy, unbound raven curls. Lion loved every moment spent in her company, as fascinated by her appearance and gestures as she was by his. He thought he had never known a high-born woman with an innate grace and alert, witty mind to match Meagan's. Every smile, blush, and toss of her curls seemed lovelier than the last. In her company under the dazzling April sun, Lion forgot the problems so clearly spelled out by Dr. Franklin.

  At twilight, they prepared a light supper in the huge kitchen, bantering back and forth over the correct cooking procedures. Lion opened a bottle of champagne so that they might toast the day, and they ate and drank side by side in the Oriental dining room.

  Evening hung overhead, blue-gray and waiting. Meagan knew Lion would want to return to the house on Pine Street before total darkness set in, but she managed to put him off with one last glass of champagne. Slipping into the parlor after dinner, she retrieved her reticule which bulged suspiciously. Meagan had saved scrupulously for Lion's birthday gift, combing the shops every day since the storm to find the perfect token of her feelings.

  Lion was stunned and deeply moved when she presented him with the package. It was a small lion, fashioned of Staffordshire pottery, with a body of ocher and a brown mane, standing on a pale green base. Its head was tilted in proud arrogance; even the muscles in the back and legs were carefully detailed.

  "It seemed just the thing..." Meagan offered after a long minute of silence.

  He looked up, clearly touched. "Only you—" he began, breaking off in what might have been a tide of emotion. One hand went out to pull her onto his lap and they kissed with bittersweet fervor, the pottery lion wedged between them.

  ***

  A silvery slice of moon hung suspended in the ebony sky, shooting down sharp, diamond-bright rays that pierced muslin bed-hangings of the field bed in Meagan's own room. Only moments ago, the tall-case clock in the entry hall had struck midnight, ending Lion's birthday, but he and Meagan didn't notice. They lay naked between the cool linen sheets, making love with the same poignant intensity that had marked their first coupling and each interlude since.

  When they lay still at last, hearts pounding in exhilarated unison, Meagan turned her face just enough to seek out Lion's eyes. The fierce emotion blazing from deep within them almost startled her.

  Impulsively, she accused him in a hoarse whisper, "You love me!"

  Lion turned his head and slowly moved away from her. The fireplace was dark, leaving only the blue-white moonbeams to illuminate his body as he stood up and walked over to the window. Meagan felt oddly detached observing him. The best sculptor could not chisel out a more splendid male form, she thought, or a more classic profile. The sweep of hair caught casually at Lion's neck gleamed in the moonlight; his clear sapphire eyes were serious as they contemplated the wisteria-drenched trellis outside.

  "You may be right," he said at length. After a moment, he returned to bed and gathered Meagan into his lean, dark arms. "I think it is time for me to tell you the truth about myself. I never see a birthday that doesn't remind me of my childhood, my origins. Perhaps, when you've heard my story, you will understand why I hesitate to believe in love. It has always been a phenomenon I thought never to experience..."

  "Are you certain that you want to tell me?" Meagan could scarcely believe she had questioned him after all the time she had spent puzzling over this very subject.

  "Don't interrupt. I might change my mind!" Lion admonished softly, pearlescent teeth sparkling in the darkness.

  After pulling her back with him into the pillows, the crisp hair on his chest tickling Meagan's soft back, he closed his eyes and began, "I was born thirty-three years ago tonight in the countryside of New York. The details are not important now, so I will just give you the facts. My mother was not married to my father; people have called me a bastard, but I never felt like one... not until later. My mother was lovely, educated. It seemed that she met my father when she was too young not to trust a man who said he loved her. He was married, of course."

  Meagan could hear the tenseness in his voice flare into hatred when he mentioned his father.

  "I didn't know it then, but he was giving her money throughout my childhood, though I never met the man."

  "What was your mother like?"

  "She was clever, warm—but frequently ill. She was only sixteen when I was born and it seemed to break her health. She loved me, but I cost her a very different future that would have been hers if not for my father—and my birth. Her parents never forgave her and she had no true friends, so there was a sadness beneath every smile."

  "Oh, Lion..." Meagan turned her face, nuzzling his hard upper arm. "Did you look like her?"

  "No." He seemed to choke on the word. "I do have her eyes, but her hair was brown. Her features were fine and she was delicately built."

  "And she died?" Meagan supplied gently. She felt his heart beating against her back before he answered.

  "Yes. When I was fourteen."

  "And..."

  "And my father arrived, terribly uncomfortable about having to relocate me. To his amazement, I turned out to be nearly his double. God, I could have died the first time we came face to face! He was disgustingly elated and decided to take me home and raise me as his son. What a joke! His son! Totally ignored for fourteen years—with no excuse whatever. He couldn't have lived more than twenty miles away."

  "You went to live with him?"

  "I had to. I went from poor fatherless boy to favorite son of a wealthy estate-owner. I arrived to find a dark, temperamental stepmother and a stepbrother whose hair was as black as mine and my father's was blond. The only physical trait he inherited from our father was the one I did not possess. They both had piercing gold eyes."

  He paused while realization dawned on Meagan.

  "Gold eyes? Do you mean... is Marcus Reems your stepbrother?" She twisted in his arms, scrambling onto her knees.

  Lion leisurely cupped her breasts, kissing them, before responding, "Yes."

  He went on to describe the following years in the Reems's household while his hands told Meagan a different story.

  It seemed that Marcus had been ill-fated from birth. Nothing he ever tried was executed well enough to earn his father's approval. He lacked the indefinable qualities of luck and finesse as well as the ability to draw people to him. Thomas Reems was constantly frustrated by this son who resembled only his disagreeable wife.

  Then he found Lion. Without ev
en trying, the illegitimate youth outshone his stepbrother in every way, from schoolwork to his effortlessly magnetic personality. The elder Reems warmed enthusiastically to him and to the challenge of winning his love.

  He never did.

  "I have never been a hater by nature," Lion told Meagan, "but I could not find any seeds of affection within me for my father. He was calculating, like Marcus, and they both possessed ambition flawed by selfishness. My father's feelings for me were rooted in his own ego, not in honest love for me. He was obsessed by the dreams of glory I might bring to his later years."

  "How awful for you. How did you manage?"

  "I persuaded him to send me away to school almost immediately. I attended the Academy of Philadelphia, then began at Harvard until the war demanded my attention. I hated being dependent on my father, but at that age it seemed I had no choice. At least, there was no other way to get the education I craved."

  "And Marcus?"

  "Oh, he was right there beside me all along, despising me more with each year. One can hardly blame him—for me to have suddenly appeared on the scene, almost a duplicate of our father, and winning the approval Marcus never could." Lion laughed bitterly. "Good God, what ludicrous irony. The last thing I desired was that man's approval. If it weren't so pathetic, it would have been funny."

  They were silent for a few minutes, Lion lost in memories and Meagan watching the shadowy, cynical lines of his face, grieving for the young boy who had been embittered by those around him.

  "At any rate," he continued softly, "I fought in the war, which seemed to be a good release for much of my anger, and after Yorktown, I went 'home' to straighten out some matters with my father. I wanted to finish at Harvard, but not with his money, so I decided to claim my mother's possessions—her furniture, jewelry, and the small amount of money she had put aside.

  "But... when I arrived, I found Marcus waiting for me with the news of our father's death. He and my stepmother seemed to be certain that I would be falling down in my haste to claim my share of the estate. She informed me that my father had written a new will before he died, leaving me over half of his property... then they began laughing like maniacs and said they had witnessed it for him—and burned it later.