Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  No one had ever kissed her this way before; she didn't know it was possible. His mouth twisted over her own, then his tongue was against her teeth and in her mouth. She choked under the brutality of his assault, gasping when the embrace ended, first with relief and then with shock as he burned a path over her neck and shoulders. The gauze handkerchief was yanked away and Priscilla felt her back bend across a steely arm. Fighting for breath, she realized that his hard lips were on her exposed breasts, scorching the nipples until an unexpected, intense chain of sensation built between her legs. What was happening? she wondered feverishly. How had this come about?

  With an abruptness that startled her, Priscilla was released, collapsing into a whimpering heap on the tapestry-covered sofa.

  Lion was up and across the room; to Priscilla's amazement he appeared cool and totally unaffected by what had just transpired. Steady, dark hands poured a brandy while she fumbled, trembling, with her bodice and chemise. Deep in her belly, a throbbing heat cried for relief and she wondered what ailment it could be.

  Lion turned to stare at her as she struggled unsuccessfully for composure. His eyes were as dark as the ocean in a winter storm. Flicking out a plain gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, he observed, "I have to be going."

  "Going?" she echoed shrilly, her skin red with the heat of frustrated passion. "You would abuse me this way and leave without even a simple apology? What sort of animal are you?"

  He walked slowly toward her and bent to press one hand insolently to her most private place.

  "I merely accepted your bold invitation, milady," Lion said coolly, straightening to his full height. "I apologize for not having time enough to ease your discomfort."

  * * *

  Every muscle in Lion's body was taut as he strode down Third Street. It had taken the last vestige of his control to behave calmly when he said good-bye to Anne Bingham. Earlier he had promised her that he would stay for dinner and the small evening-party she had planned; it was not easy to back out and do it casually when all he could feel was a consuming blaze of contempt for Priscilla.

  Stretching his knotted muscles and inhaling the frigid March wind, Lion relaxed. A smile played over his hard mouth as he remembered Priscilla's tumble into the real world. The disgust he had felt was almost made worthwhile by the transformation of her face from the affected coquette to that of a bitch in heat.

  After reaching home, he looked about automatically for Meagan even though common sense told him to avoid her. Still, prompted by curiosity, he asked her whereabouts when Wong came into the stair hall. Could Flynn have taken her off? That pup had shown far too much agitated interest over her welfare.

  Wong scarcely heard a word Lion said; he jumped up and down, thoroughly rattled, repeating Meagan's assurance that his master would be dining out. Lion finally had to grasp his collar, holding him aloft for the few seconds it took his wiry legs to still.

  "For God's sake, Wong, you're as excitable as an old woman! It's not Meagan's fault, though how she learned my plans is a mystery to me. I was going to dine at the Binghams', but I changed my mind. Don't worry. I'll be happy with a bowl of soup and a piece of cold meat. Now, where is Meagan?"

  "She went to clean libelly long time ago."

  Lion felt himself pulled off toward that room in spite of his better judgment. Quietly he opened the door and found that a fire had been lit, but there was no sign of her. Then he spotted some patterned silk peeping above the back of the settee. Crossing the room to get a better look, he discovered her, curled up like a child and fast asleep. It was the same spot she had occupied the night of Clarissa's knife attack, and her face in repose held that same exquisite innocence it had then.

  Meagan still wore the gray gown of that morning, but she had added a large muslin handkerchief which crossed her bodice and was fastened at the small of her back. One of those familiar white aprons covered the skirt of her dress and she had tied a scarf of figured silk over her curls so that only the most impudent tendrils remained free. A feather duster lay discarded near Lion's desk. Beside the settee, books were stacked precariously, and two lay open in Meagan's lap, her finger curving near an underlined passage. Grinning, Lion bent to check the bindings. Tom Jones and Common Sense; choices as paradoxical as their chooser!

  He sat back on his heels, level with her face, and sighed. How silken her skin, how wonderful she smelled, how enchanting was the expression she wore... Her nearness cleansed him like some sweet nectar and he threaded his fingers through her slender, limp ones, bending to touch his face against the back of her hand. Inches away and blurred by its proximity was the page Meagan had been reading. He recognized the underlined words because of their very familiarity: "The sun never shined on a cause of greater worth."

  Meagan opened her eyes slowly, struggling against the heavy fatigue which had engulfed her so suddenly. Lion's hand held hers and his face rested there; she could feel the firm warmth of his mouth on her knuckles. Propped against the corner of the settee, she was high enough to observe his face. The lines of cynicism, so apparent during the early days of their association, had returned, and his muscles were tightly coiled.

  Compassion and concern chipped at Meagan's heart until a fissure opened and love streamed out. Her free hand moved to touch tawny hair. After the slightest of flinches, Lion's head shifted and their eyes met. She watched as the splinters of blue ice melted until it seemed that she would drown in the vivid sea that replaced them. Wordlessly, he undid her fichu and tenderly kissed her breasts and throat. Azure eyes spoke to violet before Lion found her lips. The books fell unnoticed to the floor. Meagan's arms rounded his shoulders and neck, and she molded her slight body to his lean, hard one. She wanted to tell him how dreary her day had been without him, how his touch had banished all traces of her fatigue and gloom. She wanted to say, I need you!

  Lion was having many of the same thoughts in his own abstract fashion. As he held her and kissed her, it seemed that all the broken, dead places inside him were made whole by the warmth that flowed from her body. He longed to remove the clothing that separated their flesh, not for the sake of passion but out of a need to be as close as possible to Meagan. Minutes passed as they lay fused together, eyes closed and faces touching, kissing occasionally in tender communication.

  Finally, completely at ease, they drifted off to sleep. Meagan woke first, with a start, as she realized that anyone could walk in on them at this hour. Gently she rubbed the back of Lion's neck where her hand lay, until he too came awake, grimacing.

  "God, I am exhausted!" he moaned, flexing one stiff arm.

  As they disengaged and sat up, she replied lightly, "Perhaps you lost sleep last night."

  "Ah, yes, it all comes back to me now! Well, I suppose it was worth it."

  Blushing, she cuffed his arm. "Rogue."

  "Nay. Merely an innocent lad led astray by a raven-haired enchantress."

  "Your imagination is only exceeded by your depravity, sir."

  "Smile when you say that."

  She did, watching happily as he stretched booted legs and crossed them at the ankles. One arm reached out to draw her against his chest where she rested her cheek.

  "So, you have been reading!"

  "I thought to, but I fell asleep."

  "I noticed. In any case, such ambition is to be admired." Meagan felt him grin above her. "Did you plan to spend the next week in here?"

  With a glance at the wobbly piles of books, she smiled ruefully. "I might have gotten a bit carried away. I wasn't going to read every word, of course. I thought to look them over and choose the most promising ones for the long, lonely nights ahead."

  "Ah, I see!" He gave her arm a gentle pinch. "By the way, where did you learn to read?"

  Meagan's heart lurched as she realized she had never encountered a literate servant. "A friend taught me the rudiments and I practiced on my own until the deed was done."

  "In between rides on your horse? Curiouser and curiouser!"

  "Spe
aking of curious happenings—why are you home? I thought you were supposed to dine with your charming fiancée."

  The muscles in his chest tightened. "Who told you that?"

  "Smith. She paid me a visit today."

  "Hmm. Well, to be honest, I did intend to remain at the Binghams', but Priscilla drove me so near to murder that I was forced to remove myself for her own protection."

  Meagan refrained from gloating. "You did look rather bitter earlier."

  "I was in the foulest of moods."

  "And now?"

  Lion tilted her chin up and gave her a long, devastating look.

  "Silly minx, you know the answer." He kissed her in a way that stopped her breath. Then, "Meagan, do you suppose that we might find a way to enjoy these next weeks without constantly locking horns over the future? Could you relax and spend some time with me... if I promise to behave as a—uhm—gentleman?"

  Meagan smiled at the way he had choked on that last word. "Yes, Lion. I would like that."

  He shifted her onto his lap, holding her close with both arms. Meagan's face was glowing, cheeks dimpled.

  "Thank you," he whispered almost inaudibly against her temple.

  Part 3

  And steal one day out of thy life to live...

  —Abraham Cowley

  "Ode Upon Liberty" (1663)

  Chapter 28

  The following day was replete with sunshine and a pleasing, perfect warmth. After breakfast, Lion sought Meagan out and asked if she would join him as he attended to some errands on foot. She had been up since dawn, dragging a lethargic Prudence through the market crush and now felt quite weary as she drew up menus for the next three days. However, Lion was a powerful intoxicant, and she was conscious of a strong desire to strengthen the bond that had been formed during those minutes of silent communion the day before.

  While changing into a fresh gown, Meagan thought, smiling, I could have been on my deathbed and I'd have managed to struggle off to spend an hour or two with him. And he knows it, the scoundrel.

  In spite of the pretty picture she made in the lilac muslin, only the thought of her soon-to-be-delivered new wardrobe kept her from frowning at her reflection. It seemed that he had seen her in this dress a thousand times.

  Lion's eyes, when Meagan appeared in the stair hall, gave no hint of this. They were warm with affection. He grinned, opening the door with a flourish, and lightly caught her elbow as she passed him.

  The flagstones of Pine Street were sun-splashed, the air seemed fresh, and Meagan's raven curls gleamed and danced.

  "God, it's a glorious day!" Lion burst out suddenly after minutes of silence.

  Surprised by this unaccustomed exuberance, she smiled back.

  "Ha!" he laughed. "You look as I must when you start verbalizing your joie de vivre!"

  "Your behavior was rather out of character. Perhaps you've been near me too long?" Her eyes sparkled with pleasure at the opportunity to tease him. Lion's hand moved to hook her waist and he held her close for a moment before she succeeded in struggling free.

  "You think you can soften such a hardened cynic?" Deftly he recaptured her, lifting her off the ground so that they were eye to eye. "Have away, little one. Do your worst!"

  Meagan wriggled in his iron grasp. "For heaven's sake! Would you have us seen? Loose me!"

  With a grin he obeyed, but appeared amused for the next quarter mile, and Meagan knew that he had done it purposely to set the tone between them for that day. The frantic stimulation made her blood rush and restored her energy; she easily matched his pace and was piercingly aware of his hand on her arm, the richness of the sunshine, and the salty breeze that drew them toward the waterfront.

  The scene that met them there was fittingly animated and colorful. Magnificent ships lay close alongside one another, many a hundred feet or more in length with main masts of over seventy feet. Sailors swaggered across the docks, mingling with bales and boxes, ropes and pungent tar.

  "That's the Canton," Lion gestured toward a stunning vessel, raising his voice to be heard over the din of boisterous shouts. "It began the China trade for Philadelphia and I made my first voyage on it with Thomas Truxton as captain. The next year, I had my own ship."

  "Goodness," Meagan breathed, truly awed by the sight before her. Men were calling greetings to Lion and he paused to speak with a few of them, apparently delivering some information.

  "I have never seen such ships!" she exclaimed at last, when his attention returned.

  "You are not alone; they are splendid. Already these China Traders built in Philadelphia are being called the most beautiful ships on the seas. Notice the figureheads? Several were carved by William Rush, reason enough for the China Traders to be charmed."

  A dark, well-dressed man hailed Lion, who excused himself to confer with him. Meagan watched the activity on the waterfront, lost in the elemental panorama as she had been on her first excursion to the market, not even realizing when Lion returned until he took her arm. As they meandered up Front Street, she inquired, "May I ask who that man was? No spy for Anne Bingham, I hope."

  Lion chuckled. "No, that was Mordecai Lewis, one of my former backers. I promised William that I would do what I could to help prepare their new ship for sailing since I left him rather flat last month."

  They passed some inns; then, as the Crooked Billet came into view, Meagan let out a shout. "Lion! What is that?"

  Out on the Delaware, among the larger boats, puffed an unquestionably strange contraption which belched smoke and seemed to crawl in the water. Lion laughed in surprise, shading his eyes as he gazed out on the sparkling river.

  "By God, if it isn't Fitch's Folly! I admire that man's persistence!"

  Meagan's expression grew more bewildered. "Don't talk in riddles!"

  "It's a steamboat, or so John Fitch has named it. I first saw the thing two summers ago, during the Constitutional Convention. Everyone stood out here on the docks and laughed at him then; the damned thing seemed about to explode! But he's kept at it, trying to perfect this steam engine of his. The first one employed inept mechanical oars, but Doctor Franklin told me that he's got paddle wheels now." He was smiling in the sunshine. "According to Doctor Franklin, Fitch's backers hope to start a steamboat service. They plan to charge five shillings from Philadelphia to Trenton."

  "Do you think it will ever happen?" she asked doubtfully, watching the steamboat being passed again and again by other ships.

  "Why not? The man is determined and that's half the battle. He has spent close to five hundred pounds since 1785."

  "I would say that there is a lesson to be learned from such patience, wouldn't you?" Meagan's eyes belied her conversational tone. "Goals worth reaching are worth waiting for, aren't they?"

  "Do you mean to instruct me? I tremble before such subtlety as yours."

  His sarcastic tone made Meagan bite her lips to keep silent. There were moments when she, in her impulsiveness, failed to remember how cold Lion's blue eyes could become.

  Fitch's Folly forgotten, they turned onto Chestnut Street and walked, not speaking, to the corner of Third. Meagan had to nearly run to keep up with him. Close to tears, she finally caught the sleeve of his coat.

  "Oh, Lion, stop!"

  Her heart was exposed on her face and he thawed at the sight, trying to ignore the soft fingers which touched his own.

  "Devil take it, Meagan, will you never stop interfering with my decisions? Priscilla nags me on every other subject but this and then you make my persecution complete."

  She tried to swallow the words, but they wouldn't stay down. "Did it ever occur to you that there might be a reason you have such trouble? Could the original fault be your own?"

  They stood there on the corner, oblivious to the curious people who passed, and stared so hard at one another that sparks seemed to fly. Then, slowly, his expression grew tender.

  "I keep expecting to react to you the way I do to Priscilla when she begins to complain, but I never do," he s
aid softly. "It is such a relief not to feel that overpowering disgust and boredom. When she irritates me, I cannot wait to get away... but when I get mad at you, all I want to do is make love to you."

  Devastated, Meagan thought that her knees would buckle. She leaned against him, feeling faint with love and desire, until strong hands encircled her waist.

  "Would you accept my invitation so readily and have us arrested?" He murmured against her hair. "You know how weak I am!"

  Somehow she righted herself, but could not meet his eyes. As they continued down Third Street, the arm that Lion held shivered as if chilled.

  "What if we were seen?" Meagan inquired at length. "Have you no qualms about being seen with me, no matter how innocently?"

  "In a word—no."

  "You're incorrigible, do you know that?"

  "Lovably so, I hope."

  She had to shut her eyes against the smile turned down at her. Had the devil no mercy?

  At that point, she was saved from total collapse by their arrival at the shop of Robert Bell, bookseller. It was a perfect distraction. The sign which hung outside proclaimed: "Jewels and Diamonds for Sentimentalists." Inside the door was a notice that read: "The Provedore to the Sentimentalists will exhibit food for the mind, where he that buys may reap substantial advantage, because he that readeth much ought to know much."

  "Loquacious fellow, isn't he?" Lion whispered in Meagan's ear, amused by her astonished expression.

  Robert Bell appeared then on his way out, but paused long enough to deliver Lion's copy of The Power of Sympathy by Anonymous.

  "I wish I could stay to chat, Captain Hampshire, but it's stop I must at the Packet to place a grand new advertisement with Dunlap. You will come to the next book auction, won't ye? I would be pleased to converse at length any other day." He opened the door and looked over one shoulder, adding in his Scottish burr, "Ye've heard, I'll warrant, who the author is of that book?" Although they were alone in the shop, he lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper, eyes twinkling. "'Tis William Hill Brown, neighbor to Perez and Sarah Morton... and her late sister, of course! Isaiah Thomas fears that he may be forced to cease printing once the word is out, for the Mortons are sure to be in a fury.