Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  Actually, the evening had gone remarkably well. Dr. Franklin was confined to his bed and feeling the effects of the pain-dulling opium. Meagan charmed him instantly. They talked together for more than two hours while Lion and Mrs. Bache looked on in wondering delight at the improvement in the old statesman's mood.

  Meagan had watched the two men together as well and had recognized the same animation in Lion's face that she had seen when he was at Mount Vernon, conversing with Washington and Madison. The interest that had sparkled in his eyes when Franklin discussed the upcoming inauguration and proposed Bill of Rights gave Meagan an insight into the motive behind the impending marriage. Perhaps, she mused, he isn't as unfeeling as he pretends, even though it is the new government and not Priscilla that he cares about.

  Next to her, Lion sat brooding in the shadows, wondering why he had not been able to find the opportunity, or the heart, to tell either of the Franklins that Meagan was not his new fiancée. He was angry at himself for being fool enough to take her, a servant, to that house, but also at both Meagan and Priscilla. People were getting in the way of everything, and no one was cooperating with his plans.

  Abruptly, his eyes sought her out, discovering her own scrutiny of him.

  "What are you looking at?" he demanded harshly.

  Stung, Meagan managed to lift her chin. "As a matter of fact, I was admiring that handsome watchman we just passed."

  The barest gleam of humor flashed in Lion's eyes and Meagan caught a glimpse of white teeth in the darkness.

  "Tired of me so soon, my dear?" he inquired, his tone amused yet laced with an undercurrent of bitter sarcasm. One strong hand found her waist, closing the space between them, and Meagan's nostrils were filled with the aromas of brandy and tobacco. His breath was warm on her forehead when he spoke. "How fickle is woman! I was under the distinct impression this afternoon that you rather liked me!"

  Meagan summoned all her resources. "You are a scoundrel!" she gasped. "Take your hands off me! I'll not be used again, you unfeeling brute!"

  "Ah," he laughed softly, pulling her slender, wriggling body nearer, "so you were actually repelled by our earlier encounter! Strange that I should have misinterpreted your response so completely. Perhaps I'd better repeat the test—just so there will be no question..."

  A barely audible sob escaped from Meagan, for she knew that all her strength was about to dissolve into jelly. A struggle would be pointless and too brief to be noticed. Lion caught her delicate chin with his free hand, bringing his mouth down over hers almost savagely. There was no slow expertise in this kiss, which drove the breath from Meagan's lungs even as it flooded her with an intense tide of sensation even stronger than the whirlpool that had sucked her under in the parlor earlier that day. Her hands went up to touch his hard cheekbones and the rich texture of his hair; she longed to lose herself in him, she could not get close enough. Lion broke the kiss then, leaving her gasping, but it was not the end. Meagan melted against the muscles of his arm as he bent her head back and buried his face in her soft hair. The pulse in her neck beat wildly under his hard, burning mouth, and Meagan could sense that he was venting some sort of impersonal rage on her; yet she was powerless to stop him.

  He had unfastened her pelisse without a wasted motion, his lips and hands finding the warm, sweet breasts beneath. She was conscious of nothing except his touch and the fire that grew in her loins, spreading its warmth through every nerve in her body.

  Suddenly, Lion's voice shattered the spell and brought her crashing down to earth. "We're here."

  Meagan blinked in confusion, her breasts heaving as she finally recognized the blazing windows of Mansion House. Even as a footman approached to open the carriage door, Lion tilted her chin back and kissed her until she felt close to tears. Then he pulled her hood up to cover her disorderly curls and straightened his own cravat with steady, cool hands. Silently, impersonally, he handed her down, and together they walked toward the huge double doors.

  Wickham's expression was politely quizzical as he greeted them in the entry hall, and Meagan felt sick with humiliation. Her eyes stung at the sound of the querulous voices approaching from the parlor. Turning, she looked into Priscilla's frantic, confused eyes, sensing at the same time Lion's satisfaction.

  She heard him saying smoothly, "My dear, I'm sure you were far too busy today to notice Meagan's absence since you were plainly too preoccupied to remember our engagement. There were a few services that she was able to perform for me."

  Even in her horror, Meagan was quick-witted enough to realize that she must not blush or they would be certain he had taken her to his bed.

  By sheer force of will she managed to remain expressionless while murmuring in a courteous voice, "I was pleased to lend a hand during your maid's illness."

  One of Lion's eyebrows went up as he glanced at her in surprise. Anne and William Bingham looked foolishly relieved while Priscilla continued to stare at her fiancé and her maid. Meagan was on the verge of taking her leave of them when she caught sight of an unfamiliar figure moving forward from the shadowy parlor.

  Although he was as tall as Lion and nearly as broad through the shoulders, any resemblance between the two men ended there, for Marcus Reems had hair as black as the starless night, shrewd amber eyes, and a prominent hawk-like nose. His wide mouth was twisted into the oddest smile Meagan had ever seen.

  "Hello, Lion. Welcome home. I've been keeping the lovely Miss Wade entertained in your absence. I trust that you have no objections?"

  When Lion spoke, his surface cordiality had a dangerously sharp edge to it. Watching the two men, Meagan felt a cold chill go down her spine.

  "Well, Marcus, I did not expect to meet you here tonight," he was saying with a smile. "It has been many months since—where was it? Whampoa?"

  "Your memory is faultless, my friend."

  Priscilla's wits returned to her at this point as she beamed and stepped between the tall men, apparently oblivious to the darker undercurrent in their polite conversation.

  "I declare, I do believe I am in the company of the handsomest men in Philadelphia! Lion, why didn't you tell me about Mr. Reems?"

  "I can't imagine how it could have slipped my mind, Priscilla dear," he replied with an ironic smile.

  Meanwhile, Anne Bingham was shooting disapproving looks at Meagan, who finally saw her chance to take the hint.

  "Do excuse me," she whispered, dropping a quick curtsy. As she hurried away toward the servants' quarters, her face was hot with shame, for Lion Hampshire had not even troubled to nod in her direction.

  * * *

  The blackest of moods had enveloped Lion by the end of that evening; no amount of Bingham's brandy could dispel it. Ordinarily, the very presence of Marcus Reems set his teeth on edge, but this situation was intolerable, and he couldn't believe he was being forced to endure it in silence. For two hours he sat in a stuffy parlor in the company of four of the people he liked least. Anne Bingham's flawless charm grated on his nerves, and he found himself longing to hear her laugh or even scold as artlessly as Meagan had that day. William seemed more pompous than usual, dropping names into every sentence. Neither of the Binghams, however, caused him a fraction of the irritation that he felt whenever he looked at his future wife. Tonight she was oozing sweetness, clearly confident that Lion and Marcus both craved her attention. She sat between them, giggling and fluttering her long lashes until Lion felt like strangling her.

  Marcus was clearly enjoying the situation, positive that Lion's own hatred for him was being compounded by jealousy. He flirted continuously with the willing Priscilla, misinterpreting Lion's black expression for that of a possessive lover.

  The tall-case clock in the corner was striking eleven, but Priscilla's laughter rose above it.

  "Mr. Reems, how you do run on! Have a care or you'll turn my head!"

  A dove in a nearby gilded cage cooed unhappily, and Lion suddenly felt he would go mad if he did not get some air. Standing up, he left the r
oom without a word.

  A footman stood patiently in the softly lit hallway, but Lion passed by without his usual friendly greeting. The expansive, lush grounds beckoned to him. Once outside the rear door, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the moist, chilly night air. Crickets chirped in celebration of the impending spring while, overhead, clouds shifted to reveal a profusion of stars against the ebony sky.

  The three-acre garden was still quite bleak after the long winter, but Lion could detect the scent of new green life. In the darkness, the large assortment of rare trees and shrubs were budding again, and he found himself cheered at the prospect of that garden in full flower.

  He strolled out over the damp lawn, soothed by the cool, pure breeze. Finally, he paused and leaned against one of the new Lombardy poplars, regarding the back of the mansion and trying not to think about his problems. Most of the lights were out by this hour. Single, muted candles burned upstairs in the yet unoccupied bedchambers of the Binghams and Priscilla, while the ground-floor servants' wing was completely dark. Lion did not find that surprising in view of the strict hours kept by the domestic staff, but his curiosity was aroused by the ghostly white fluttering at one of the windows. Welcoming the diversion, he decided to investigate. As he approached, Lion saw that the sash was thrown open and the specter was actually a voluminous white bedgown. Shadows from the trees blocked the moonlight, so he was only a few feet away when he realized the identity of his ghost. It was Meagan.

  Common sense told him to turn back before it was too late; another confrontation with her would do his nerves little good. And, in the back of his mind, hidden by his other worries, a seed of guilt had been taking root. Guilt over his recent treatment of the girl. Lion was not accustomed to dealing with his conscience, and he had no desire to begin at this stage of his life.

  Indecision made him pause. Silently, he and Meagan regarded one another. Hair unbound and body swimming in the white calico bedgown, she appeared more diminutive than ever. There was nothing childish about her expression, however, for her smoldering eyes communicated a womanlike rage. Lion instinctively accepted the challenge.

  "Well," he laughed softly, "if it isn't my favorite little maid!"

  Meagan balled her hands into tight fists, biting her lips as she glared at him.

  "You look tense," he continued in mock anxiety. "Do not tell me that your day was not sufficiently tiring?" He reached the open window and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Or were you waiting for me?"

  She pushed at his chest with all her strength, but he was as solid as a stone wall. "You are odious!" she cried in a half-whisper. "I am awake because I had to finish the work you took me away from this morning!"

  Lion's eyes danced with merriment. "Don't go on, Meagan. These effusive thanks are not necessary; I know that you are grateful."

  "I do not find you amusing, Captain Hampshire. In fact, I find you hateful! And I don't care if you discharge me for saying so! I never want you to come near me again." She paused for a gulp of air. "What happened today was the most degrading experience of my life!"

  His eyes were serious now, holding hers like intense blue magnets. "You only feel degraded because you enjoyed it so much."

  "That is a lie! You were a scoundrel! You urged me all these weeks to trust you, to be your friend. In my naïveté, I believed you—and then you betrayed me so horribly. You used me as if I were a common whore!"

  "Now, Meagan, I wouldn't go that far—and I didn't! Let's keep this in perspective!" Lion was smiling again, and now he lifted both brows. "By the way, where in the world did an innocent like you acquire that word?"

  "From books, I assure you. Certainly not from personal experience!"

  "Shh," he admonished, laying a Flynn finger across her lips. "You will make me laugh and then we'll be caught."

  "You deserve it!"

  "I'll not argue that. The question is—do you?"

  Impulsively he reached across the sill for Meagan's hands and kissed the small, cold palms. Even in the darkness her ready flush was not lost on him. Belatedly, she pulled her hands from his.

  "You must be deaf, sir! I have asked you most plainly not to touch me again! If you and Priscilla Wade choose to ruin your own lives that is your affair, but I'll not be drawn into your games. Perhaps Clarissa and all your other dimwitted female admirers don't mind being made fools of, but I do. Goodnight!"

  Leaning forward, she grasped the casement with both hands and pulled it shut so forcefully that Lion had to jump aside to avoid being hit. Even after the white-gowned figure had disappeared from his view, he remained there under the chestnut tree, rubbing his jaw and wearing a bemused smile.

  Chapter 11

  Delicious cooking smells filled the roomy, well-equipped kitchen and Meagan lifted her head to inhale them from time to time, smiling dreamily. Three plump chickens were roasting on a spit over the fire, turned by a vacant-eyed serving-girl, while the aroma of baking bread wafted out of the oven.

  Meagan sat at the sturdy table with Wickham, Smith, and the long-limbed loose-tongued cook, Bramble. Three of the servants were polishing the Bingham silver, while Bramble simultaneously directed the activity of the rest of the kitchen staff and sliced potatoes with amazing speed. She was also a self-righteous gossip, keeping up a nonstop dialogue punctuated only by the sizzle of chicken fat dripping into the fire.

  Smith and Wickham sat together on one side of the table, letting their hands touch from time to time. Meagan had guessed their feelings for one another the first time she saw Smith look at Wickham. There was a radiance in her gentle hazel eyes that was unmistakable. They said little except to each other so Bramble directed most of her conversation at Meagan.

  "If you were to ask me, I'd say it's a disgrace!" she exclaimed, and Meagan glanced up quizzically.

  "What's that, ma'am?"

  Bramble leaned closer, pursing her narrow lips.

  "The theater!" she hissed. "I'm told the Assembly passed the bill two days ago, making it legal here again. 'Tis a sin! This city has been known for its purity of spirit, but this be the first step to its ruin. Mark my words!"

  Meagan attempted to change the subject. "My, those chickens smell wonderful. I do so admire your ability in the kitchen."

  "'Tis only hard work," she sniffed. "I believe in it. Not like some people hereabouts. There are times when my conscience cries at me for working for people like these."

  "The Binghams?"

  "What other? They are bad enough, for there is no condition worse than that of quality people letting themselves fall away from virtuous lives. I am truly sickened, however, by the class that is beginning to make itself at home here..." Her knife paused for only a moment before she resumed the rapid slicing. "I do not believe in spreading tales, but of course, it be common knowledge in any case."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Marcus Reems. A despicable, godless man. I only say this with the hope that as her maid, you may be able to help Mistress Wade."

  Meagan had the feeling that some portion of the conversation had escaped her. Marcus Reems and Priscilla? Was this woman unbalanced? Two days had passed since Lion Hampshire had taken her away from Mansion House. Since then, she had become painfully aware of the realities of her new life; all the excitement had gone from the masquerade. She was a common servant, working from dawn to dusk and on into the night, with no time or opportunity to discover the latest news from Priscilla. In any case, her former friend showed no inclination to confide in her. Meagan was beginning to believe that she had forgotten they were ever sisterly companions, for Priscilla's attitude toward her had become as condescending as Anne Bingham's.

  Contributing to Meagan's flagging spirits was the fact that she had not had so much as a passing glimpse of Lion Hampshire since their late night conversation at the garden window. Was it possible that he was taking her at her word? Meagan told herself that she was delighted to be rid of him, reminding herself that she found him insolent and presumptuous. Still...
all her senses remained alerted to some signal of his presence—his step in the hallway, his scent in the air, the sound of his amused, dry voice, or a glimpse of his broad shoulders. Worst of all, when she slept, Meagan could feel his arms holding her and his mouth against hers. The dream would continue until she reached the limits of her endurance, then she would awaken, feverish and consumed with a strange longing that she was learning to despise.

  From snatches of Priscilla's conversation and that of the other household members, Meagan was aware that Priscilla was seeing much more of Lion. Perhaps he had fallen in love with her after all?

  "Bramble, whatever does my mistress have to do with Marcus Reems? Surely you know that she is betrothed to Captain Hampshire?"

  Bramble laughed humorlessly, showing long teeth.

  "'Tis of no consequence to people like these. I saw her with that Reems man today. Arm in arm they were, and Captain Hampshire weren't so much as on the grounds."

  "I don't understand!"

  "What be there to understand? Tis a breed apart, South. Fidelity and righteousness mean nothing to these people!"

  Meagan turned her eyes on Wickham and Smith. "Is this true? Is Miss Wade carrying on with Mr. Reems?"

  Smith flushed a little, exchanging looks with Wickham. "It is true that he was here today... and Miss Wade entertained him. As far as anything else—"

  "It be only a matter of time!" Bramble declared. "Marcus Reems be a hard man—a cruel one to my mind. And he has but one ambition in life."

  "What's that?"

  "To eclipse Captain Hampshire."

  Meagan let the spoon she was polishing fall to the table. Again she looked to Smith.

  "I am so confused! Can you tell me what she's talking about? What an odd word to use—eclipse!"

  "I shouldn't," Smith began with a sigh, "but Bramble may be right. Perhaps you could offer Miss Wade some advice. Of course, she has no way of knowing, but Mr. Reems and Captain Hampshire have been rivals—perhaps enemies—for a long time now."