Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  "Yes. Yes, I would like that."

  They left Heaven and Hellfire tethered to a post and started off in a westerly direction. The weather was fine and Philadelphia's citizens were out; the poplar-shaded footpaths were crowded with the lower classes while the more wealthy passed in their open carriages.

  Meagan's innate good spirits were revived by the sunshine. They strolled past every sort of shop, from apothecary and blacksmith to milliner and bootmaker. There was even a comb shop, with hand-carved combs of tortoiseshell and horn displayed in its window.

  Lion made easy, distracting conversation, pointing out every building of interest and answering all Meagan's questions as her curiosity returned. He showed her Jefferson's corner room at the Indian Head Tavern where he had labored over the Declaration of Independence while noisy parties and meetings continued downstairs. Farther on, they made a detour up the cobbled lane to Carpenter's Hall, originally the site of the First Continental Congress, and now the meeting place for the Library Company.

  "The Company grew out of Doctor Franklin's Junto Club," Lion explained. "We have a room up there for our books and another for a collection of objects the doctor has christened 'Philosophical Apparatus.'"

  "His inventions, I suppose!" Meagan added, laughing. "The Junto Club was for discussion, wasn't it? Morals and philosophy and such?"

  "Basically. The Library Company was born when they added books. It is still essentially a gathering of good minds for the free exchange of ideas; the guiding principles are freedom of opinion and truth for its own sake. Heady stuff! Doctor Franklin drew up most of the rules and one of them is that there must be intermittent pauses in each meeting for the wine glasses to be refilled and drained."

  Meagan laughed. "Isn't he wicked!"

  "You sound terribly disapproving," he mocked.

  "Oh, I love wickedness. You should know that by now!"

  One of his eyebrows shot up at that remark; he had to clench his fists to keep from grabbing her right there on the street. Meagan, however, was unaware of her imminent peril, for she was eyeing a negro who wheeled his oyster barrow a few houses away.

  "Could we get some?" she pleaded.

  It was Meagan's first taste of this famous Philadelphia food, and at first she shuddered at the slimy texture. The oysters were gray, with the tang of ocean salt still noticeable, and Lion showed her how to add just the right amounts of lemon and horseradish. Her pluck won out. She ate the things until it seemed natural, like any other native who had been raised on them. Lion watched, smiling, as she conquered her revulsion with typical enthusiasm but finally pulled her away when he feared she would be sick from downing too many.

  They passed a host of other vendors on their way to the State House: youngsters hawking fragrant bread or flowers, fruit-girls with their hampers of cherries and strawberries, and negroes selling steaming pepper pot. Lion was thankful that Meagan had not brought her basket, for he knew that she would stop and buy until it was full.

  All around was the Federal spirit. Signboards had been painted over to include the word so that everywhere Meagan looked were Federal livery stables, Federal taverns, shops boasting Federal hats or furniture.

  The birthplace of that intoxicating word was located a short distance away. The State House was far enough from Society Hill that Meagan had yet to see it, though her childhood was rich with tales of the place. It seemed that every man who ever visited her family had just come from there, after the Continental Congress signed the Declaration of Independence when she was only four, or after the Constitutional Convention just three years earlier. She had heard descriptions of Philadelphia's State House from everyone from Washington to Jefferson to Madison, but none of it had prepared her for the throb she felt in her breast when Lion said, "There it is."

  Handsomely constructed, the building seemed haloed with idealism and pride. Within it had been formed concepts that men had fought for and died to win; intangibles made tangible, "inalienable rights." Staring at the cream-trimmed bricks, Meagan recalled a snatch of Thomas Paine's The Crisis:

  Heaven knows how to put a proper price on its goods; and it would be strange indeed, if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.

  * * *

  Robert Morris, punctual as always, had been in New York for a month, waiting for the rest of Congress to arrive. In fact, the ballots for the election of President and Vice President had only just been counted two days ago, on April the sixth, and Robert had sent a letter to his wife by special messenger to relay the news.

  When the boy arrived, grimy and breathless, a liveried servant intercepted him in the doorway. The letter was then properly delivered on a silver salver to the elegant parlor where Mary Morris poured tea for her guests, Anne Bingham, Priscilla Wade, Eliza Powel, and Caroline Beauvisage. The women clustered together when Mary recognized her husband's seal, all of them anxious for the final word and some hint of when they might expect to journey to New York.

  "He says that it is official; General Washington was elected unanimously, and Mr. Adams shall be Vice President, though his margin of votes was considerably narrower!" The women laughed knowingly at that. "The inauguration shall take place on the thirtieth day of this month and Mr. Thomson is leaving immediately for Mount Vernon to convey the news of victory to the General."

  The conversation was thick with plans and predictions from then on. Unfamiliar with New York town as well as most of the people being discussed, Priscilla soon grew bored. Finally, she reached over to tap Anne's satin sleeve and smothered a yawn.

  "Couldn't you show me the house? I am finding this conversation awfully dull!"

  Anne was in a good mood and so agreed quite readily.

  "You know, there is speculation that the new President himself may be living here before the year is out," she confided to Priscilla when they reached the stair hall. "Robert has a great deal of influence and he has already begun coaxing General Washington to locate the capital here instead of in New York."

  "And he would turn over his own house?"

  "He has done so before, during the General's other periods of residence in Philadelphia. You may be sure that if this becomes the seat of government, so shall his home be here." She pointed to the glossy floor.

  It was a beautiful mansion, in keeping with Morris's reputation for wealth rivaling the Binghams'. Everything was polished to the highest possible shine; brass fittings had been used lavishly throughout the house. Mary Morris was a lovely woman with a sweet face and temperament; the decor reflected her own understated elegance. Little of the opulence of Mansion House was in evidence, but each piece of furniture proclaimed its value in the richness of the wood and excellence of its craftsmanship.

  Upstairs, on the second of three floors, Anne led Priscilla through a sitting room to view the charming gardens and orchard below which were surrounded by a red-brick wall. The front of the house looked out over the fifty-foot-wide High Street and its intersection with Sixth, an area of town quite different and far away from Society Hill. Anne paused at a window in Hester Morris's bedchamber, watching the parade of rich and poor on Philadelphia's busiest street, while Priscilla inspected the daughter's furnishings.

  "Well, well..." said Anne at length, "if it isn't the ever-absent Lion Hampshire, walking the footpath amongst the chimney sweeps and pigs! Someone told me that one can never see him in his carriage anymore. It's a wonder he hasn't contracted some hideous disease." Narrowing her eyes, she leaned closer. "It would seem that he has acquired more new servants than just my Bramble... I'm certain I have never seen that boy before."

  Lion had lately begun to seem like a myth to Priscilla, she saw him so seldom. Her curiosity pricked by Anne's comments, she went to the window and immediately located the striking figure of her betrothed.

  The next moment she froze; her green eyes became fixed and unblinking. Without seeing the shadowed face of his companion, she knew who it was as surely as she knew her own name. There was no mistaking tho
se petite legs in their once familiar garb of breeches, or the energetic walk and animated gestures of their owner. Even the distant lilt of laughter could be recognized amidst the shouts of the urchins and vendors on the street below.

  Conscious of a creeping, chilling dread, Priscilla shifted her eyes back to Lion. Part of her would have preferred to turn away, for some instinct warned her what she would see in the expression on his face.

  And truly, this was a man she had never so much as glimpsed or imagined could exist. The near-animal brilliance of Lion had been somehow transformed into the most warm and dazzling sort of magic. Even Priscilla could recognize that his laughter, as fire-charged as the sun overhead, could only be a product of love.

  Chapter 32

  Markwood Villa was finished, for the present at least, and Meagan experienced an uneasy twinge as she opened her armoire door to choose clothing for the day ahead. Every morning for over a week, she had gaily pulled on breeches, but now they were only a dark lump in the corner.

  What lay ahead for them now? she wondered. Their excuse for spending every waking hour together was gone, crushed under the last piece of furniture put in place at the villa. Though Lion infrequently mentioned Priscilla, and had never spoken a word about the wedding, Meagan realized that it could not be more than a fortnight away. Surely there were parties planned, and Lion would have to start behaving like an attentive fiancé. It seemed that the best days were over for Meagan and him... The charade was truly in its last act.

  Blindly, she dressed in a pretty gown of gauzy white muslin banded by a wide velvet sash the color of heather, then sat down at her dressing table and frowned into the mirror. Great violet eyes stared back, their depths obscured by iridescent mists of pain. No matter how poorly she slept, the love that flourished within lent its warmth to her body so that her cheeks and lips retained their rosy glow. Absently, Meagan pinned her long curls up over her head so that they spilled down randomly, one or two falling free to the small of her back. After encircling her neck with another band of heather velvet, she was off to the door without a backward glance.

  In the hall a fresh vase of blue phlox caught her eye. The flowers were so small and tender that she reached out for them irresistibly, plucking out a handful. One by one they touched her tilted nose and were nestled amongst the gleaming raven curls; a quick pause before the mirror confirmed her suspicion that the blue blossoms made better accessories than anything Madame Millet could create.

  Through the hours of early morning, Meagan remained pensive and preoccupied. Bramble and Wong sensed the problem at once when she failed to respond to their barbs. Two new housemaids arrived to be interviewed, but Meagan was so surprisingly vague with them that Wong had to step in to ask the necessary questions. While he was busy with this task, a knock sounded at the front door, and Meagan went to answer. A footman wearing the Bingham livery stood on the step.

  "Good day, South! Didn't know you was here, too! I've a message for Cap'n Hampshire."

  He fished in his coat to locate the letter and handed it to her with a grin. Touching a hand to his tricorne hat, he turned to leave, but Meagan called, "Wait, Pierce! Shouldn't you stay for an answer?"

  "Mistress Wade says there won't be one," the footman replied and leaped to the back of the waiting carriage.

  Puzzled, Meagan closed the door and regarded the envelope with the Binghams' seal on it. She glanced up at the tall-clock to be certain of the hour, then started up the stairs.

  Her tentative knock drew an immediate response.

  "Come in!"

  Peeking around the door, Meagan caught her breath at the sight of him. Lion sat up in bed, brown against a backdrop of snowy pillows with the linen sheet drawn negligently over his legs to his hips.

  The window curtains had been parted to allow the entrance of a wide sunbeam which lent a brilliant haze to his hard-muscled torso and chiseled face. A newspaper was spread across his thighs, which accounted for the long moment before Meagan was acknowledged.

  When Lion glanced up, he looked irritated, but that expression softened immediately.

  "I thought you were Prudence," he said ironically. "It seems to be a time-consuming task—bringing me coffee."

  "No doubt," Meagan smiled, her eyes on his irresistible chest. Moving closer, she could see the engaging remnants of recent sleep in his expression and a faint pattern of pillow creases on his cheek.

  "This just came for you."

  Lion accepted the letter, breaking the seal and glancing over the page. His smile was enigmatic.

  "Her Highness informs me that she will be otherwise occupied until further notice."

  "What? What does that mean? Lion, how can you look so complacent? Why, the wedding is barely a fortnight away—"

  Meagan stopped short, cheeks burning as she felt his eyes caressing her. Her breasts tingled in warning.

  "I imagine Priscilla is still angry about Markwood Villa," he explained in a low voice, the barest smile curving his mouth. Meagan stood frozen, near enough for him to kiss, and Lion stared at her long and hard with a hungry gaze that seared her flesh right through the muslin gown.

  God save me, she thought, lost in his naked gaze. With agonizing slowness, one of Lion's hands moved toward her, lean fingers about her waist. Gently, they slid up her side and across her narrow back so that she shivered visibly. Meagan was unable to coordinate the simple act of breathing; she thought that his veins must run with fire, certainly not ordinary blood, for when his hand grazed her bare shoulder her flesh burned and burned... He traced the line of her throat, her trembling chin, then downward to the creamy, lush curves of her breasts. Meagan gasped, dissolved, and dropped to one knee on the edge of the bed. She heard him draw a ragged breath before leaning forward to take her in his arms; the newspaper and Priscilla's letter crackled between them and Lion ripped them away along with the linen sheet. Meagan's own skirts rode up her thighs as Lion dragged her face up to his. She felt the long muscles and crisp hair on his legs against her own soft skin, then the shock of contact with his manhood, warm and rock hard.

  His hands were in her hair and their mouths came together in a ravenous kiss, devastating in its intensity. Meagan's lips parted eagerly; blue phlox blossoms spattered the white pillows as she felt the hot tingling ache between her thighs become an exquisite torture. Lion cupped her breasts and they swelled against his hands. Meagan thought she would die when he bent her over into the pillows, pulling her low-cut bodice down. Slowly, his lips traced the curves and soft valley between her breasts until they reached one taut, rosy nipple. First a light kiss; then his tongue touched it with fire.

  Meagan gripped Lion's shoulders, until she felt his face touching hers, kissing her tremulous lips as his fingers moved to unfasten her gown with unfailing deftness.

  The rapping at the door went on for several seconds before they heard it.

  "I be out here with your tray, Mister Hampshire!" Bramble called in her sharpest, most suspicious tone.

  "For God's sake, not now!" Lion's voice was menacing.

  During the heavy pause which followed, Meagan scrambled up and off the bed, tears welling in her eyes as she fumbled with the fastenings on her gown.

  Lion's jaw was set angrily. In seconds, he had her muslin bodice back in place and hastened to retrieve the sheet as Bramble warned, "For the girl's sake, I be comin' in!"

  Lion was sitting in bed, reassembling the newspaper, and Meagan had turned away to arrange the window curtains when Bramble entered. Her thin lips worked for a moment as she surveyed the bedchamber and its occupants.

  "Devil's spawn!" she hissed at Lion.

  "Madame, I hired you to cook my meals and for no other purpose. I find your intrusion here and your attitude incredible!" The anger in his voice cut the air like a sword.

  "I be a God-fearing woman. I could not stand by and see you ruin a young maiden." She thrust out her pointed chin. "I smell the heat of you in this room. Vile! Like animals—"

  "That's en
ough," Lion ground out.

  Bramble narrowed her eyes as she noticed the blue flowers strewn on the sheets. "South, you may depend on me to keep you safe from this—man. My responsibility as a Christian is clear."

  Meagan turned to face her, ready to protest, to admit the truth, but Bramble would not be interrupted.

  "I have feared for you, for I know the bestial nature of this man. I have heard of the attack Mistress Wade suffered at his hands. The poor girl was nearly taken against her will, right in the card room in the full light of day!"

  * * *

  Heaven stretched out her elegant legs, seeming to fly as Meagan urged her on toward Markwood Villa. It was almost an adequate release for her angry pain: the muscular force of Heaven's movements against her legs, the sting of a cold wind that pierced her muslin gown and pricked the softness of her throat and face. As they topped a hill, Meagan automatically pressed her heels into the horse's flanks, anticipating a familiar length of straight road.

  However, the sight that met her eyes on the far-off horizon was a shock. What had seemed to be an innocent April shower brewing now gave signs of a different nature. Enormous black clouds rose above the distant tree-lined hills like thick smoke from some terrible fire. They sent a stunningly powerful wind northward to announce their approach, while darkness seeped over the sky like ink poured on pale blue muslin.

  Sheer fright prickled Meagan's skin. Heaven modified her pace without being told, nearly coming to a standstill as her mistress wondered wildly what to do. Was there time to return to the house on Pine Street? If so, did she want to flee from the storm like some helpless child? Somehow, the fury of the elements seemed to offer a challenge to the bitter passion that coursed through her veins, a passion that smothered her better judgment.

  Heaven seemed to give Meagan a wondering glance when she nudged her sides almost fiercely, calling above the rising wind, "We must not stop until we reach Markwood Villa!"