Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  She had decided that the only way to win Lion would be to make him realize, during the weeks she would spend in his house, that he could not live without her. The other side of the coin was that he also must be made to believe that she would not remain as his mistress. Somehow the fateful decision laid out in their bargain would have to be reversed to rest with Lion, and reversed so gradually that he would not even realize what she had done. If he comprehended the fact that she was scheming as diligently as he, Meagan knew that all would be lost, for Lion would never allow himself to be manipulated.

  She had never intended to let their physical relationship enter in as a factor, at least not to this extent, but now she sensed that her instincts had not betrayed her. When Lion had kissed her, her brain ceased to function and her woman's body had taken control. Meagan had learned her first lesson: all the careful planning in the world could not save her when Lion spun his web of magic around her. She knew that her heart could be trusted to follow the right course. When all else failed, the simplicity of love could be the best weapon of all.

  Smiling, Meagan nuzzled against the muscled ridges that began between his ribs and continued all the way down his flat belly. Sunrise lent a rosy-gold luster to Lion's sun-darkened skin and the hairs that shimmered over his arms, chest, and legs.

  Meagan edged her way higher, nibbling gently at his collarbone and brushing feather-soft kisses across broad shoulders. She lingered over the hollow at the base of his neck, teasing with her tongue until she felt him harden against her satiny thigh. Slowly his arms encircled her and for a long moment he held her close, breathing in the fragrance of her hair.

  "You are insatiable!" he teased, his voice husky with sleep.

  "I know. I am terrible."

  Lion laughed low, rolling her over into the pillows. "On the contrary... You are wonderful."

  His mouth grazed her throat, ear, shoulder, burning wherever it touched until Meagan felt the fire spreading downward. Helplessly she arched her hips for closer contact with his bold manhood. Longing kindled anew in her loins; she laced slender fingers into his hair, unaware that she gripped it painfully.

  The intensity of her response heightened Lion's own desire. He came to her, thrusting deeply, and Meagan answered him with fervent passion.

  They were consumed by a blazing sun that reached far beyond physical need. Afterward, she could not let him go, keeping him within her, her arms around his muscled back. They were both covered with a light sheen of perspiration and their hearts thudded in unison.

  Her face was pressed to the place where his neck blended into his shoulder, while he lay against her raven hair. Unexpected tears crowded her throat. Blinking, she tried to keep them from her eyes, but to no avail. One slid out and fell across the bridge of her nose, then dropped onto Lion's collarbone.

  Instantly his head came up. Bracing with his elbows, he stared down at Meagan's face. A warm, surprising tide of emotion swept over him as he gazed at her, wondering how anyone could look so beautiful, winsome, soft, womanly—all at once. She was flushed; a film of moisture clung to her upper lip like dew on a rosebud.

  "Oh, Lion, don't look at me like that!" Meagan managed at last. But her voice was faint, and her tiny chin trembled even as she bit her lip in an effort to still it.

  Kissing a tear from her temple, he asked gently, "What are you thinking? Do you weep out of regret?"

  Her voice was soft and halting. "I could never regret these past hours; I am able to recognize the beauty, purity even, of what we have shared. I wish I could live only in the present instead of complicating things by remembering tomorrow." Her next words were spoken with poignant directness and eyes full of love. "Oh, my splendid lion, I wish I could stay in your arms forever."

  "No one is forcing you to leave me, Meagan," he replied quietly. "You are more than welcome to spend the rest of your life with me."

  Lion had seen her weakness and could not resist the opportunity to appeal to it. However, he had underestimated, or forgotten, her strength. For a long moment, Meagan gazed at him and her chin steadied, then went up a notch while her entire body stiffened.

  "If you think to wear me down by rendering me defenseless, you misjudge me. I will never be your whore. Just because I have shed tears for you, that does not mean that I have turned to jelly!" Angrily she swallowed a sob. "See what you have done with your crude charm? You have cheapened a time that I would have treasured—"

  Lion was well aware of her body's rejection. As Meagan's eyes closed and she pressed a fist against her lips, he obligingly moved away and left the bed, bending to lightly pick up his breeches from the nearby wing chair. His thoughts were in a whirl, but he knew that he could not accuse her of being proud or stubborn, for he possessed the same traits in equal measure. Also, justice was certainly on her side.

  Buttoning the breeches, he shrugged into his shirt and turned back to the bed where Meagan now lay on her side, eyes fixed on the brilliant sunrise. She had pulled the quilts up to her neck, and when Lion brushed loose curls back from her forehead, it seemed that she didn't notice.

  "Meagan... Meagan, look at me. Are you pouting or is it possible that I have made you this angry? Is this to be my punishment?"

  Her head turned and violet eyes met sea-blue. "I don't mean to be childish if that is what you're implying. There are times, though, when I long to become numb. And it is worse now... because just a few minutes ago I was soaring so high that it seemed that the joy was too great to contain. I must say that you brought me back to earth quite effectively... just like that day at Markwood Villa."

  "For God's sake, you make me sound like a monster! I am simply human and apparently skilled at saying the wrong thing. But I do not see it as you do. To me, it is the only practical solution—you would not be a whore! You would be the only woman for whom I care, the greatest delight of my life—"

  Meagan couldn't stand it. She stuck out her tongue forcefully, then interrupted, "And Priscilla Wade would be your wife, the mother of your children, the woman who would warm your bed at night and wake with you each morning! What would I get? Hurried lunches? All the political meetings you could contrive to sound plausible to your wife?" Her delicate nostrils flared with rage. "No thank you! Forget it! And if you ever bring this proposition up again to me it will be the last conversation we ever share!"

  Chapter 25

  Away from Meagan, Lion reviewed their argument in his mind and found that the more he thought of it, the angrier he became.

  He had left her room without another word after she had flung that latest threatening ultimatum at him. If he could have produced a suitably scathing retort, he would have employed it, but as it was he had to try for the last word with a well-timed exit. In his haste Lion had forgotten discretion; fortunately no one else seemed to be about except for the inevitable housemaid scrubbing the front steps.

  Back in his own rooms, he had again stripped off last night's clothes. The covers on the testered bed were neatly turned back; a brass bed warmer lay cold beneath them. Lion had thought to sleep for an additional hour or two, but his active mind betrayed a suddenly tired body. Wide-eyed, he had watched the sun come up until the sound of Wong's staccato patter in the hall reached his ears. The butler had been startled to hear his master bark an order for hot water at such an hour, especially when he knew that he had been out until very late the night before.

  Now, clean-shaven and half-dressed, Lion yanked on supple riding boots, gripping the leather so hard that tendons stood out on his hands and wrists. Just who in the hell does she think she is? he wondered for the hundredth time. The chit is a blasted serving-girl and she's got me feeling guilty half the time for not treating her like the Queen of France, and the other half of the time I behave as though she is!

  Standing up, he flicked an ash from his biscuit-colored breeches and reached for a fresh muslin cravat. As he tied it with swift, practiced movements, Lion stared into the mirror on his shaving stand, but his gaze was fixed on his own
face. The lean line of his jaw hardened; his keen blue eyes took on an icy resolve. I'll be damned, he thought angrily, if I'll turn cartwheels for that little vixen! I should have known better than to ever turn soft toward any woman. She thinks she has me backed into a corner, but she'll learn yet that I am not so easily tamed—or bewitched!

  He crossed the dressing room, and after donning a buff waistcoat with narrow walnut-colored stripes, he extracted a soft, nut-brown coat from the armoire. Superbly cut, it fit against without a wrinkle. He barely glanced in the mirror. Lion possessed an innate sense of himself and of classic style, focusing on his physical self only long enough to be assured that his body and the clothes that covered it were flawless. Thoughts in excess of those were a waste of time.

  * * *

  An irresistible aroma wafted out from the kitchen. Meagan rounded the corner to find Prudence, the young cook, crossing the floor with a tin of hot croissants. They were Lion's breakfast favorites and one of the girl's few specialties; exquisitely tender, the rolls were iced with sugar and loaded inside with plump raisins.

  "Prudence! Are you aware of the time? Why have you baked the croissants so early?"

  Blank, dishwater-gray eyes glanced up and the cook paused in the midst of transferring the rolls from pan to serving plate. "The master be awake," she replied.

  "What do you mean? Has he requested breakfast in bed?"

  "Nay. He be in the dining room, drinkin' coffee."

  Meagan pondered this news as she moved about the kitchen, seeing that everything was organized for the day ahead. A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she realized he'd been too shaken to go back to sleep!

  Her perversity did not extend to the point of ignoring Lion's order not to wear the black uniform anymore. Vanity had won out and she was now happily clad in the soft dove-gray gown she had worn the day they departed from Virginia. Crisp white ruching trimmed the deeply scooped bodice and elbow-length sleeves, and the soft gray fabric complemented her creamy skin while lending a smoky cast to her violet eyes.

  An adolescent kitchen maid had materialized with a silver tray. As Prudence set Lion's breakfast on it, Meagan heard herself blurt, "I will take that in this morning. Do you have the butter?"

  The other two females appeared rather startled as she whisked the tray away and departed. Entering the dining room, Meagan saw Lion from behind. He was totally absorbed in a copy of the Pennsylvania Mercury, eyes riveted to the fine black print as he absently sipped his coffee.

  There were seven newspapers available in Philadelphia, staggered throughout the week so that one of them appeared each day. Lion subscribed to all seven, devouring the articles with total assimilation. So deeply involved was he now that even the tantalizing fragrance of the croissants did not break his concentration.

  Meagan set the tray down and proceeded to lay a place before Lion and the paper barrier. It almost irked her that he hadn't noticed her presence, for she had rather fancied him to be in an emotional turmoil; it seemed that the Mercury provided a quick cure! Out of the corner of one eye, she noticed his handsome attire and gleaming sweep of hair now neatly refastened at his neck. Even through the smells of fresh ink, croissants, and coffee, Meagan could detect the masculine essence of the man, and hated herself for being so stirred by it.

  Loudly she clattered silver against china, longing to pierce the newspaper with a fork. No reaction. She cleared her throat, then stamped a foot. The Mercury moved up a fraction. Meagan peeked under the table to locate Lion's leg and proceeded to deliver a sharp kick to one booted calf. Her thin silk slipper crumpled on impact; her toes felt as though they had struck some tree trunk and it took her last scrap of spirit to refrain from letting out a yelp.

  "Is something bothering you, Meagan?" Lion inquired calmly, his face still hidden behind the newspaper.

  Her throbbing toes combined with indignant chagrin to set her cheeks aflame as he snapped the Mercury into fourths and set it next to his coffee cup. One brow arched while his mouth twitched with ill-concealed amusement.

  "Do sit down and catch your breath," he advised, yawning lazily as he stretched out an arm to pull the nearest chair away from the table. Meagan obeyed without a word.

  Lion broke a croissant and buttered the middle, confident enough of his own advantage to allow her a moment to cool down. Then, taking a bite of the raisin-studded roll, he turned to meet her eyes and they measured one another in silence.

  Several scalding rebukes hovered on Meagan's lips; she itched to wipe the self-satisfied smile from his face. However, she swallowed every epithet.

  "Could you spare a few minutes?" she inquired primly. "I do want to discuss that household matter which I mentioned—"

  "Never say that we still haven't gotten around to that! My dear Miss South, please do not leave me in suspense another moment!"

  Pretending to ignore his mockery, she began, "It is about Prudence, your so-called cook. I suppose she is competent enough, but obviously there is much room for improvement. I would like your permission to hire someone with real skill—"

  "I am flattered that you do not wish to share me... After all, the girl is at least as young as you are! However—"

  Lion found it difficult to keep a straight face as he watched Meagan spring to take the bait. Gone was the stiff formality of moments before, replaced by hot cheeks and a familiar pulse at the base of her throat.

  "Your conceit is ludicrous! Do you imagine that I could actually be jealous of that paper-brained ninny? Why—" She broke off, angry and humiliated, as she realized his game.

  Lion proffered one of the remaining croissants. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't tease you." He chuckled softly. "Have a croissant. Prudence does have a way with them."

  Meagan realized that she was ravenous. It seemed years since she had eaten.

  "Thank you. Now, if you are done making sport of me, I would appreciate the opportunity to finish what I wanted to say,"

  "I promise to behave."

  "My idea is to keep Prudence in your employ; she can assist the new cook, for heaven knows there is ample work for two. You see, Lion, I happen to know that Mrs. Bingham is getting a French chef any day now, which means that Bramble will be demoted."

  He let out a low whistle and raised both eyebrows. "Bramble! That woman's culinary talents are nearly as sharp as her tongue! And I'll wager that sheer vengeance would prompt her to leave the Binghams' flat out—even to work for a miscreant like me." One side of his mouth quirked. "Wouldn't Anne be in a state! It would almost be worth putting up with Bramble's dour manner just to watch Anne squirm."

  "Honestly, you are as mischievous as a child." Meagan tried to sound disapproving, but a grin broke through. "I must agree, though... it would serve her right. If there were justice in this world, she would lose Bramble to us and then discover that her precious Frenchman was a clod in the kitchen!"

  Lion tilted his chair back, and at the sight of his knowing smile, Meagan realized the telling slip she had made. Us. Well, let him gloat, she thought, while he still has the confidence to do so.

  "This gown is a distinct improvement," he commented, appraising not only the dress but its wearer. "I have to go out this morning and will send Madame Millet to fit you for a new wardrobe." His gaze touched the swell of her breasts. "Though I heartily approve of this design, I do think we could use more color. Perhaps a bit of lace? Stripes? What is your opinion?"

  "You are absolutely dissolute. A lecher. That is my opinion."

  "Meagan dear, you are obviously still overwrought from your ordeal at the hands of Major Gardner."

  "If you are suggesting that I have confused you with him, I suppose that is possible. You do have that one previously mentioned trait in common."

  Lion's brushed a napkin across his mouth and stood up. "I do hate to leave in the midst of such a rousing spar, but the morning's duties beckon."

  He inclined his head in farewell, but Meagan found herself trailing behind into the entry hall, unwilling to lose sight of him u
ntil the last possible moment. Though the sun shone outside, there was a bracing east wind from the river and vestiges of the night's frost still sparkled along the edges of the fanlight.

  Lion turned at the door to face her. "Well..." he ventured, a trifle bemused by the artless way she had followed in his wake. "I shall do some discreet investigating today concerning Bramble. I'll let you know what I turn up and we can decide on a course of action."

  "You might talk to Smith. She is the one who told me the secret plans for the French chef."

  "Fine. I will if the opportunity presents itself."

  Impulse urged him to take Meagan in his arms. Somehow he managed to force one hand to the doorknob, but as it turned, she caught his coat sleeve.

  "Surely you aren't going out like that?"

  "Why? Did I neglect to fasten my breeches?"

  "It is freezing and you must have a greatcoat! Gloves, and a hat—"

  "You warm me well enough with your solicitous concern. It plays traitor to your frequent declarations of hatred, I think." He touched a finger to her blushing cheek. "You would bundle me up like an infant in its first winter?"

  "I only wish that you would be sensible! I have no desire to nurse you through an illness."

  "Ah—so your motives are selfish?"

  "Lion, stop teasing me. You play like a cat with a mouse. Will you put on a coat or won't you?"

  Opening the door, he gave Meagan a last grin that shot to her heart like a burst of sunfire. "No."

  Bitter wind caught her skirts and sent goose bumps up her arms; then the door whipped shut and she was alone.

  Chapter 26

  Madame Millet breezed in like a tiny, fluttering moth. She was a blend of tans, from her drab brown hair to the hem of her nondescript taupe gown, but her warm manner attracted as many customers as the genius of her work.