"A woman?" The earl smiled. "Don't tell me you've finally found a woman to settle with? Are you married, nephew? I didn't get a chance to ask when last we met."
"Not yet. Soon." He turned back to Percival. "It looks as if my coach is gone. I don't know what could have become of her."
"You know women. Fickle." The earl patted the seat beside him. "Come, James, dine with me and we'll discuss the little witch, Margaret. Now that I know she's here, we must make our plans to find her."
"Rutledge!" a strong voice called from the street. "Gads, why did you run off? Chasing another whore?" Lord Roberts nodded to James as he climbed into the coach, followed by Albert Marlin.
The two men had come to the play with the earl. Percival didn't particularly like the men. They were both loud and obnoxious, but they owned ships he was interested in purchasing.
"Gentlemen, my nephew I've told you so much about," Percival introduced. "James Randall, Viscount of Surrey, since he has inherited."
"Lord Surrey."
"Lord Surrey."
Both men paid their respects as they seated themselves inside the coach.
James stared at the crowd of men and women still pouring from the theater doors. "I just don't know what became of her. A friend said he saw her and another leaving our box." He stroked his handsome chin. Percival had always envied his nephew's fine-lined jaw. "Now she and the coach and the friend are gone."
"Cuckolded, perhaps, James?"
He laughed. "I think not."
"So dine with us, or at least let me carry you somewhere." The earl tapped the leather seat again. It was odd how he hated this man, the perfect son that Percival knew he would never have. He hated James for his handsome looks and goodness of his heart, but he also loved him. That same part of him that hated perfection, also desperately loved it.
With a sigh James stepped up into the carriage. The footman shut the door and in a moment they were bouncing down Drury Lane.
"I appreciate your giving me a ride, sir, but I can't sup with you. Could you possibly take me home to Charing Cross? I fear my Meg might be ill."
Rutledge sighed. He'd much rather have spent the evening conversing with his nephew than the simpletons sitting across from him. "Very well." He pushed open a small window to his left. "Charing Cross," he shouted to the driver.
"Yes, my lord."
The earl settled himself back on the seat, smoothing his coat. The pain in his chest frightened him. This was the second time he had experienced it in the last week. Was this yet another curse of the Randall blood, a weak heart? His father had died of a heart ailment.
"Hang it." The earl sighed. "I utterly forgot Lady Ashford. Wasn't she with you, gentlemen?" He directed his question to the two fops seated across from him.
Marlin fiddled with the ruffles of his silk sleeve. "She went with Carlos and Abney. Good riddance, I say. I've had a taste of that piece and I must admit she's as dry as a French Merlot."
Rutledge chuckled.
"Say, heard the latest gossip?" Roberts asked. He opened a woman's fan he must have confiscated at the theater. It was all the mode among the fops these days to carry a lady's fan.
"I seriously doubt my nephew is interested in filthy Court gossip," the earl commented.
"Oh, this is too good." Roberts fluttered the fan with his hands that were as delicate as any woman's.
"Do tell," Marlin insisted, patting Roberts on the knee.
Percival watched his nephew glance out the window smiling politely.
"I swear if men spent less time gossiping and more time taking action," James said, "I doubt this country would be in the state of disrepair that it is."
"Well." Sir Robert fluttered his fan, making the golden yellow curls of his periwig bounce. "Do any of you know the Baron Mummford?"
"Oh, I know him," Marlin chimed in. "Wonderful parties."
"A rotund man?" The earl nodded with disinterest. "I'm acquainted with him."
"Well," Roberts drawled, "the baron is quite disturbed, for it seems that his darling virgin daughter is missing."
"Virgin, indeed." Marlin gave an indignant snort. "Had a piece of that, as well."
"Do you know her, sir?" Lord Roberts directed his question to the earl. "Pretty little strumpet with inky-black hair and a pert mouth made to be crushed by a man's lips."
Percival removed his hat, tossing it onto the seat. He hadn't expected the conversation to turn to Mary Mummford. "Met her at the baron's last supper, I think. You remember that one, don't you? The one where Lord Cassidy caught his wife upstairs with his friend Acres?"
Lord Robert grinned. "I remember it well."
Percival lifted one shoulder, having no desire to discuss Mary Mummford with these men or anyone else for that matter. " 'Twas my only acquaintance with her." Then he looked out the window, relieved to recognize the street. "Ah, here we are James, Charing Cross."
The coach rolled to a halt and Percival felt the coach shift as the footman leaped off the back and ran around to let James out.
"Thank you so for the hospitality, your lordship." James backed out of the carriage, bowing stiffly.
Percival stared at his manicured hands. "James . . . James let's not be so formal, you and I." He glanced up hesitantly.
James hung on the coach door. "It was the way you said you wanted it."
The coolness in his voice stung Percival. Would no one ever care for him, just a little? "That was a long time ago, James." He fiddled with his thumbnail, surprised by his own emotions. "I'd like it if you called me Uncle."
James looked away. "Could we talk about this another time? More privately?"
Percival wished his nephew would look him in the eyes. He wished he would show just a little compassion for a man who was growing older, a man that perhaps had made some mistakes in his lifetime.
Percival patted his lips with his handkerchief. "Of course, James. Why not call on me this week and we'll discuss the matter of Margaret."
"Thank you again for the ride." James nodded to the two fops. "Gentlemen."
"Good even' to you, Surrey."
"Evening, Lord Surrey. Hope you find your woman," Marlin finished with a hint of a snicker.
James closed the door with a slam and then settled down in his seat again, wishing he had a drink. He could see it was going to be a long evening, entertaining these two simpletons.
"Feeling better, darling?" Kincaid stretched out on their bed and stroked Meg's temple.
Meg let her eyes drift shut, savoring the feel of his loving touch. It was so unfair, all of this. When her grandmother had left Meg in Philip's care, when she was dying, it had been the understanding that when she came of age she would marry Lord Surrey's eldest son. His son James. Grandmother had arranged the match made in heaven. But then James was sent away when she was still a child, secluded in another part of the castle, and Philip had taken her for his own wife.
Meg rolled onto her side, throwing one arm over Kincaid's hips. She still couldn't believe that she had once lived in the same home with Kincaid and not recognized him. Of course she had just been a child then, and he a young man not yet fully developed. And Meg had not been permitted to dine with the family, but rather ate in the kitchen with her nursemaid. Kincaid . . . James . . . had mostly been at school. Meg had only admired him from afar. From the top of the castle wall, she remembered watching him ride away that last time, off into the mists of the morning, an outcast. Philip had been in a rage for weeks after that even though he had been the one who had ordered his son from his house never to return.
"You certain you don't want me to call a physician?"
Meg looked into Kincaid's eyes, her memories fading away. "I'm fine, really." She smiled. Sweet heavens, she loved this man. "It was just hot at the theater."
"I'm sorry you missed the supper I'd promised you."
She snuggled up against him. "That's all right. It could be nice to stay home this evening. Monti's gone out and we have the house to ourselves."
He lifted her unpinned hair, brushing the nape of her neck with his fingertips. "I already gave the servants the night off. We could chase each other naked through the house."
She giggled. She really did feel better. Since Kincaid had arrived home and Rutledge hadn't shown up on their doorstep, she was much better. Still, time pressed her from all sides now. Seeing the earl, having him see her, made her realize she and Kincaid had very little time left together.
"We could take a bath together," she suggested wickedly. When he lowered his mouth to hers, she brushed his lower lip with the tip of her tongue.
"A bath, indeed." He flattened his tongue and licked her cheek.
Meg giggled, trying to roll away from him. She was dressed only in her shift. When he had arrived home, just after she and Monti, and realized something was wrong, he had immediately assumed she was sick. She allowed the assumption. Kincaid had ordered her straight to bed, bringing her tea himself. Then Monti had gone out for the night, whispering to Meg that she had some explaining to do later. Now Meg and Kincaid were just lounging in their bed, enjoying being together.
Kincaid tickled her and she burst into another fit of giggles. "Stop!"
"You said yourself you're not sick any longer." He tickled her again.
"I'm not." She pushed him away with her bare feet. "But you know I hate to be tickled." She grabbed one of the pillows by its linen cover and whacked him playfully in the head.
Kincaid fell back, feigning he'd been hit much harder than he had.
Meg burst into laughter as she rolled onto her knees and hit him again.
Kincaid grabbed another pillow and hit her back.
Squealing with laughter, she hit once and, before he lifted his head, she hit him again.
Now both of them were laughing wildly as they crawled across the bed hitting each other again and again, Meg trying to stay an arm's length away from him. Somehow in the tussle she lost the case of her pillow. She kept hitting him, sometimes ducking his swings, other times catching a pillow in the head or across her shoulder
Winding up, Meg hit Kincaid hard across the back and the seam of the pillow burst. Suddenly the air beneath the bed's canopy was filled with small, white goose feathers. Meg cried out with delight as she watched the feathers fall like a first snow.
"Now look what you've done!" Kincaid declared, tossing his own pillow aside.
"Look what I've done," she echoed, delighted by the soft feathers that floated down around her. "Can you believe there would be so many?"
As the feathers floated down they brushed her arms, her cheeks, her legs left bare by her shift now tangled around her waist. Each feather that touched her felt like the caress of a butterfly's wings. Meg caught the feathers with her hands and tossed them into the air in handfuls, oohing and ahing with the delight of a child.
Kincaid caught a feather between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it between them in fascination. Then he reached out to brush the feather across her chin.
Meg giggled. "That tickles."
He brushed the feather at the valley between her breasts. "And that?"
She still giggled, but her voice was huskier this time. "It tickles, but it feels good."
He picked up another feather so that now he had two. With each hand he brushed her bare thighs.
Meg sighed with pleasure.
"Hmmmm," he whispered. "We may have stumbled upon something interesting, my love."
Meg closed her eyes as he brushed her collarbone, the pulse of her throat, with the feathers. Suddenly her skin was tingling with delight, with anticipation of his next move.
Meg sat on her knees, perfectly still, facing Kincaid as he continued his delightful assault.
Kincaid brushed her earlobes, her lips, her eyelids. The first time he kissed her, her eyes flew open in surprise. She brought her fingers to her lips where he had just touched them.
He smiled. "No, no, close your eyes, my love. You have to guess. The feather . . ." he brushed her bare shoulder with a feather, "or me." He then brought his mouth close to the same spot so that she could sense, more than feel, the heat of his breath, the graze of his lips.
Meg closed her eyes with a sigh that resembled a moan of pleasure. He was surrounded by feathers still. They were in her lap, piled in the bed around her bare legs, caught in her hair, stuck to her shift. With her eyes closed it was like floating on a cloud with her lover.
"You are so clever," she whispered.
"Shhhhhh."
He brushed a feather . . . or was it his lips across her cheek?
Meg sighed again and again as Kincaid teased her flesh with the feathers, his mouth, his tongue until her senses soared. He didn't touch her breast or the private place between her thighs except through the linen of her shift, and yet she felt as if her flesh was on fire. Every nerve ending tingled. She was lightheaded, her mind as light as the feathers that still brushed against her.
When Kincaid finally took her in his arms and laid her gently on the bed of feathers, Meg wrapped her arms around his neck, craving the taste of his mouth. Their breath mingled. She kissed him again and again, caressing the muscular plane of his back and bare shoulders, not knowing when his shirt had come off. Had she removed it or he?
"Meg, Meg," Kincaid whispered. With a broad palm, he stroked the length of her body, following the curves of her breasts, her hips, her thighs. As they moved on the bed the feathers rose and fell in their fluffy cloud.
Meg rolled Kincaid over, pressing her body against his, his back into the soft bedding. She laughed, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, drunk with her passion for him.
She pulled off his breeches, his stockings, and then straddled him. She watched him watch her remove her shift. Feathers stuck to her here and there where her body was damp with want of him.
Then Meg flattened her body over his, pressing her hips to his hips, her breasts to the flat plane of his broad chest. She felt his manhood hard and pulsing against her damp thigh and marveled at the thought that no matter how many times they made love, he still desired her.
It would be so hard to leave. A tear slipped from Meg's eyes, down her cheek, and fell on his chest.
"What is it, love?" Kincaid asked. The light of the flickering candle beside the bed cast eerie shadows across his face. She could see the brown of his eyes, speckled with green.
"Nothing," she whispered, wiping the place on his chest where her tear had fallen. "Only that I'm so happy."
"Women are strange creatures," he answered after a thoughtful moment. "But I'd not have you any other way, my sweet Meg."
Meg leaned over him and kissed his mouth, her tumbling hair falling in a curtain around his face. "Make love to me," she whispered desperately, her gaze locked with his. "As if it were the last time."
"There will never be the last time," he answered, rolling over, taking her with him until it was she who laid in the bed of feathers with him on top.
Meg reached up with both hands, her gaze never straying from his face. How handsome he was with his angled cheekbones and wisps of hair just beginning to gray. Their hands met and their fingers interlocked.
Meg was still staring into his dark eyes when he raised his hips and sank his shaft deep inside her. She closed her eyes, moaning, reveling in the feel of him and the brush of the goose down feathers that still rose and fell with every breath, every movement.
Soon Meg was lost to the ancient rhythm that joined two lovers as one. Again and again she raised her hips to meet his thrusts, crying out with ecstasy, sinking her blunt nails into the flesh of his shoulders.
She twisted beneath him in the agony of her pleasure. The rapid rise and fall of her breath matched his as he lifted her higher and higher on the bed of feather clouds.
Meg heard herself cry out. She felt her muscles contract and then release. She felt that burst of ultimate joy. But Kincaid continued to move, to thrust.
His fingers tangled in her hair as he dug his knees deeper into the mattress
. Meg gasped for breath, her body still trembling from the last orgasm, struggling to reach the next. Seconds later she cried out again, this time her entire body convulsing with the pleasure of his thrust.
Kincaid groaned, rising and falling one last time before his body was still.
For a moment Meg could do nothing but fight to catch her breath. She was lightheaded, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of their lovemaking.
With a moan Kincaid slipped off her damp body, falling onto his back. Feathers fluttered upwards, floating down to rest across his bare body, the crisp hair of his groin now spent. "Sweet mother of God, I believe you've done it this time, Meg. I'll be the butt of every satire come next week. Man dies from making love . . ."
Meg heard her own laughter in her ears as she rolled onto her side to rest her head on Kincaid's shoulder. "I like the feathers," she whispered in his ear. "Could we try it again?"
He lifted his head only a hand's length and then let it fall as if too exhausted to hold it up. "Now?"
She dissolved into a fit of husky laughter. "All right. I'll get you some wine and a bit of bread to fortify you. But I won't be cheated. The evening is yet young." She pressed her lips to his in the kiss of a lover that was also a wife.
If only this night could last forever.
Twenty-one
Meg walked along the street, her arm linked through Kincaid's, her vizard carefully in place to shield her identity. She certainly didn't expect to see the Earl of Rutledge in Whitefriars, one of the slums of the city, but there was no room for error. She knew her life was at stake. If Rutledge caught her, she was dead. No one would be able to save her, not even her beloved.
"This really isn't necessary," Meg said, looking up at Kincaid. "I can get to Saity's on my own."
He shrugged, nodding causally to someone who passed them on the congested street. "I feel better escorting you, so let me do it. The close calls are coming too close for my comfort these days. I think we all need to be cautious."
Of course Meg knew what he was talking about. The robberies. The closer Kincaid came to finishing off the list of offenders, the more dangerous the hold-ups were becoming. Meg smiled, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. "No one could recognize me in this." She touched the black vizard that concealed her features. Then she leaned to whisper, "And who would recognize you without your swath of red tied around your face, Captain Scarlet?"
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 22