Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  A few more minutes passed. Shrewd-voice suggested that the other man probably had the time wrong. Gravelly-voice somehow managed to whine in denial, and Meagan thought that she would probably be highly amused under different circumstances.

  There was a sharp rap at the coach door, followed by a scuffle as her inept captors outdid each other in their efforts to get out first. Meagan strained her ears, but it seemed that they had moved off for the conference.

  She knew it was Marcus. The question was: what purpose did this serve? Would he blackmail Lion? There were a number of possibilities along that line, involving Lion's money or political plans or both. Or was Marcus after more serious revenge? If he knew what she and Lion had actually shared, he may have guessed a way to wound Lion enough to make up for all the times in the past when he had tried and failed.

  * * *

  Gravel and Shrewd, as Meagan had dubbed them in her mind, were both quite fat and smelled bad. Through her muslin blindfold, she could not discern any more than their shapes, except to notice how clumsy they were.

  The roads were badly rutted so that whenever a particularly gaping hole appeared in the distance, the driver would shout, "Now, folks, to the left!" or the right, as the situation demanded.

  Meagan could sense the stealthy approach of twilight and knew that it was time she did something. So far, she had made no move to struggle or attract attention of any kind, so she hoped they thought her a limp and docile female. With luck, they would also believe it took just these few hours for such a fragile flower to reach her breaking point.

  Her captors were snorting with laughter as they made plans to spend their payment for this night's work. Meagan was almost ready to go into her act when she heard a cork squeal and pop from a bottle, followed by the sound of liquid splashing against glass as the coach thundered along the road.

  She remained quiet, listening to them swill what smelled like bad whisky. Gravel hiccupped and launched into another of his many confusing brainstorms for spending the money. He was sitting next to her, across from Shrewd, and Meagan decided there was a better way to slip into her role. Holding her breath to keep from gagging, she put her head on his shoulder. He stiffened and went silent. She could almost feel them staring at one another; she whimpered. The cork slid back into the bottle.

  "Hey! What's wrong with you?" Gravel demanded, apparently afraid to touch her or remove her head.

  Meagan began to cry, almost silently at first, working her way up to pitiful sobs.

  "Maybe she's hurt?" Gravel wondered in total confusion.

  "Hurt? She's been sittin' right here for hours. How'd she get hurt?"

  "How should I know? Lookit her! She's as little as—as a little girl, almost. All tied up—"

  "Some little girl!" Shrewd retorted nastily, reaching over to grip one of Meagan's breasts and giving it a painful twist. She fell in the other direction, pretending to go faint.

  "Hey! What's wrong with you?" Gravel accused the other man.

  "What's wrong with you? Whatta you care if she's hurt? She's gonna be dead pretty soon anyway! Let's have some fun with her!"

  Meagan felt hands pulling at Wong's black coat; the first button was torn off. Then, the seat heaved beside her, followed by the thud of a blow, and the coach lurched forward as a body fell. Fingers closed around her waist and arm; gratefully she recognized Gravel's repulsive odor. He fumbled with her blindfold and gag until they were off, and Meagan rewarded him with a smile that lit up the darkness.

  Shrewd was slumped sideways on the opposite seat. Blood trickled from his nose, and he lay so motionless as to appear dead if not for his labored breathing. Meagan looked away, searching her defender's face as he concentrated on untying her wrists and ankles. Even in the dark, she could see his bulbous nose and the heavy folds of fat that encircled his tiny eyes and mouth. His skin was shiny with grime; his clothes looked as if they had not been off since the first cold day last autumn.

  "Thank you, sir," she murmured in a weak, frightened voice.

  "I don't like to see a little girl like you treated bad," he growled. "There's nothin' worse."

  "But—he said you were going to kill me...?"

  Gravel looked up, pained. "Oh, no, ma'am! Not me! He promised I wouldn't have to do anything. I wasn't even gonna watch! I was—"

  "But you would let him?" Meagan pressed softly. Her hands were free and she began to rub them.

  "All that money! That's all. I just wanted to get drunk enough—maybe I'd forget. I'd never have another chance to get money like that. All I had to do was help him take you so you wouldn't get away. You know, like a guard—" His gravelly voice was whining again.

  "Don't feel bad," Meagan soothed. "There's a way you can get your money without killing me at all, more than what you were promised. I'll give you this ring!" She spread her fingers under a moonbeam to display the ruby ring. Her only sure chance of success was to play on his greed. "Tell me, how were you to kill me?"

  Gravel swallowed several times. His face was covered with beads of sweat. "We—he—was supposed to drown you in the Delaware up by Trenton, so somebody'd find you on the way up to New York town."

  "A pleasant surprise for someone," Meagan observed grimly. "Well, I have a better idea. I will give you my ring and you may also keep my horse—"

  When she paused to gulp at the thought of handing over Heaven, Gravel interrupted, "We was gonna keep her anyway. Uh—B wants the horse back as part of the proof."

  "Oh, he does, does he? Well, if that's all the proof he demands—"

  "That, and you floatin' in the river!"

  Meagan made a face. "This B of yours is not as clever as I thought if he believes a drowning victim just lies in the same spot of the river waiting to be discovered! My disappearance can easily be explained. I've been swept away into the ocean!"

  Gravel was squinting his raisin eyes, obviously in awe of Meagan and conveniently not noticing what a radical change she had undergone in just a minute or two.

  "Now," she was saying, "I want you to leave me here. You just drive on to the Delaware then, or turn around now, and when your friend wakes up you can say he slept through it all."

  "But you couldn't. What'd you do without a horse? At night—"

  Meagan's eyes gleamed enigmatically in the darkness. "Don't worry about me. I am very good at adapting!"

  "He'll never believe me. He knows I couldn't—"

  "Just tell him you got courage from the bottle. Or I made you mad. Besides, why should he care as long as he gets his money? He'd never believe a frail little thing like me could last out here all night anyway."

  Gravel was leaning forward to shout to the driver, but at Meagan's last words, he looked back over his beefy shoulder. "I don't believe you can either! I think you're mad! But, then, it's your life..."

  She grinned. "Well said, sir."

  * * *

  The evening was well advanced. Luminous silver clouds drifted back and forth across the moon as showers of fireworks lit up the sky in a last gasp of celebration. Usually the streets were quiet by ten o'clock, but tonight there was still activity, as if the people realized that this was a holiday which could never be repeated.

  Lion was walking home from Mansion House, having sent Joshua on alone with the post-chariot. He was keenly impatient to see Meagan and deliver the news which would change both their lives, but he felt the need to be alone with his thoughts first, to reflect on the day's events and their meanings.

  The banquet at City Tavern had been lavish, the atmosphere saturated with gaiety. Fourteen toasts were drunk, each one larger and more enthusiastic than the last. Lion and Priscilla sat next to the Binghams, and he was amazed to find his attitude toward the two women quite altered. Priscilla drank a great deal and, now that she felt no further need to play games or roles with him, became relaxed. She was as trite and childish as ever, but Lion found himself reacting to her tolerantly, rather like an older brother.

  After her third glass of wine,
Priscilla drew Anne into the conversation. She had already told her, briefly, of her plans to marry Marcus. A heated quarrel had ensued, interrupted almost immediately by William's entrance into the room. Since that incident, the two women had exchanged only the briefest civilities, but now Priscilla proceeded to pour out all her feelings and reasons for her decision. Lion provided cool, quiet support, and eventually Anne was making peace with them both. She had only wanted the best for Priscilla, she insisted, and everything she had done or said was motivated by that desire.

  Lion doubted that, but it seemed an appropriate time to call a truce with the world in general. Furthermore, Anne Bingham was not a person he cared to have as his enemy, or Meagan's.

  The streets were well-lighted, as always, with watchmen at regular intervals, so there seemed no reason to be wary of anyone on this night further illuminated by fireworks and moonbeams. Emboldened by wine or ale, people who normally would have dropped their eyes when passing a man like Lion now greeted him exuberantly. He grinned in return, for it almost seemed that they must know his secret and be congratulating him on his good fortune and future.

  * * *

  The house on Pine Street was dark except for the usual candle burning in the entryway.

  Walking the few blocks home had heightened Lion's anticipation of this meeting with Meagan. If she was upset with him for spending so many hours with Priscilla, it would mean even greater joy for her when she heard the news. It seemed like a year had passed since that morning when he had given her the ruby ring. She had wept, and he could guess the reason for her tears, but he had resolved not to tell her his intentions until the break with Priscilla had been made. The torment he had suffered was ended now, for the time had come at last to offer Meagan the position in his life they both wanted. Lion felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from him.

  He was covered with a layer of dust, and his clothes smelled of smoke and liquor and sweat. It took only a moment to reach his chamber, where he quickly peeled off the gray and white garments. After washing with cold water, Lion pulled on sunshine-fresh biscuit breeches and a crisp, open-necked shirt. He was reaching for a pair of polished boots when his eye caught sight of the flower-filled vase on the lowboy. Every day it held blossoms to match Meagan's mood, but it was the first time he had seen this variety. The pottery lion had been placed there as well, and Lion paused, smiling, to pick it up. Then he reached for the vase in order to get a better look at these mystery flowers.

  Slowly, as recognition dawned, the smile faded from his tan face and all his muscles began to tighten and grow hot, like molten steel. These flowers were not in bloom outdoors yet and wouldn't be until May or June, so Meagan had obviously gone to some trouble to acquire them.

  They were blue forget-me-nots.

  * * *

  Closing his eyes, George Washington leaned back against the finely upholstered interior of his coach. A light rain began to fall, pattering against the windows, while the newly risen sun struggled for attention behind a veil of gray clouds.

  Colonel David Humphreys, friend and secretary to the general, exchanged glances with Charles Thomson, the third passenger in the coach. The Irish-born Thomson, who was Secretary of the Congress, had been dispatched two weeks earlier to Mount Vernon. He had been given the unlucky duty of breaking the news Washington had been dreading, then seeing that he got safely back to New York town.

  As if sensing the looks that passed between his two companions, the general, now president-elect, opened an eye.

  "I was not asleep, but simply enjoying my own company. And the quiet."

  "Yes, sir," Thomson agreed.

  David Humphreys, who was counted among the President-elect's most constant companions and friends, felt more at ease. Most people were intimidated by Washington's seemingly austere manner, but Humphreys knew that the real man enjoyed laughter and witty conversation as much as anyone. At least that was true at Mount Vernon, but it seemed those times were past. Already, he was tense, pensive, withdrawn... Would the Presidency bring back the somber man Humphreys had served during the War for Independence?

  "General, I must say I admire the way you disposed of the City Troop this morning! Telling them you could not have borne traveling covered while others got wet—all Philadelphia will be talking of your modest unselfishness."

  Washington's deep-set gray-blue eyes met Humphreys', which were openly twinkling, and allowed himself an ironic smile.

  "One begins to feel confined... pressed. All this bowing and clanking beside the carriage... At times I wonder if the world hasn't gone mad."

  Thomson spoke up defensively. "Everyone holds you in such high regard, sir, that I fear they may overdo—"

  At that moment, the coach suddenly swerved to the left and Colonel Humphreys landed nearly in Thomson's lap. Someone was yelling outside, so General Washington swiveled to look out the back.

  "Why, there is someone jumping about in the road! It almost looks like a servant—buckled shoes and all—but certainly a filthy one."

  The person was running in a wobbly fashion after them as the driver began to gain speed again.

  "Tell him to stop!" Washington ordered Humphreys. "Perhaps it is a servant from a nearby farm. Someone could be in trouble."

  The colonel leaned out the window and shouted to the driver, who reined in the six horses with a frown.

  As the bedraggled figure ran toward the coach, the driver waited atop the box with one hand on his pistol. Washington glanced out through the window with growing apprehension. It appeared to be a boy, wet, muddy, and quite wild-eyed.

  Charles Thomson cleared his throat. "Sir, I am not at all certain that we should be—"

  But the general's eyes were riveted on the figure pulling at the door, and David Humphreys' expression had altered as well.

  "I could swear..." the aide muttered in disbelief.

  "Open the door," intoned Washington.

  The order was obeyed, and suddenly the elegant, dry interior of the coach was filled with the animated presence of a dripping, grubby urchin whose eyes sparkled like huge amethysts. Off came the crumpled bicorne hat, followed by a spill of curling black hair.

  "Oh, General! And Colonel!" she sobbed. "Thank God you came. No one else would have stopped for me—or believed my story!"

  Washington forgot his immaculate blue and buff uniform. His arms enfolded her and one big hand patted her hair.

  "Meagan Sayers, if it were anyone but you, I would name this episode a trick of my old mind!"

  Chapter 38

  Wong scurried along the paneled hallways, his ears tuned to any sound that might warn of his employer's approach. When a tall kitchen maid rounded a corner in front of him, Wong skidded into the nearest bedchamber without a second thought.

  In all the time Wong had known Lion Hampshire, he had seen him forbiddingly angry on many occasions, but this mood was different.

  Always, one could feel safe in the knowledge that the core of the man was good and there was no room for cruelty in his nature. But this person, born during last night, seemed terrifyingly alien. All the power that Lion usually kept under tight control had been released; his steely body emanated currents of danger that Wong felt as tangibly as his own alarmed heartbeat.

  Lion's menacing, black mood was rooted in unbearable pain. Even Bramble was ready to admit that he must have truly loved Meagan to be so devastated by this loss. He was like a great wild animal, now mortally wounded and capable of striking out at anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.

  The unnerving sound of Lion pacing in his bedchamber could be heard at frequent intervals all night long. Neither Wong nor Bramble had slept either. Lion had kept them up until nearly three o'clock with a barrage of questions, repeating himself as if his mental powers had been crippled. Then, the other servants had been roused, even the ones who had left before Lion to go to Gray's Garden.

  Bramble, immune to fear, admitted from the start that Meagan had told them good-bye, that Wong a
nd she had watched the girl's breeches-clad figure disappear into the stables. Meagan had not revealed either her destination or mode of transportation.

  Lion released a stormy tide of verbal abuse, yelling at them again and again for allowing her to go. Bramble stared back stoically, but Wong began to quake in his chair. Grasping for a straw that might save him, he had remembered the visit of Kevin Flynn that morning. Perhaps, he squeaked, there was a clue?

  And so, by dawn, Flynn had been delivered to the house on Pine Street. Wong paused now outside the library door, listening fearfully to be certain not only that the two men were still conferring, but that Flynn was safe.

  Inside, Lion strode around the room, unable to sit down. Kevin occupied a leather wing chair, but sprang up and down throughout their conversation.

  His own elfin face was lined with real concern and something akin to surprise. It had never occurred to him that his former captain, the consummate rake, could have actually fallen in love with Meagan.

  "I can't believe that she put so little value on herself!" Lion was shouting. "You say that she reached the conclusion the country needed me most?" He paused, raking a lean hand through his hair for what seemed like the hundredth time, then turned back to Flynn, ready for the story's finish. "Tell me then—you left her to go after a chaise and a boy to drive it—"

  "It seems she panicked, or never intended to wait at all. By the time I returned, she'd taken her horse and gone on her way. I went to the house to ask what had happened, but everyone was off to Gray's Garden except for some paper-brained chit stirring the stew."

  Lion crossed the room to grip Flynn's arm. "Do you mean that she's alone on Heaven? She's been out there all night?" His head turned to the window where a light rain drummed the panes. Backing up against his desk, he let his knees go as he sat on the edge. Fiercely, he tried to clear his mind and think, but it was as if a fire had been lit behind his eyes. A scalding tear escaped to trace the chiseled lines of his cheekbone and jaw. "Dear God, what have I done?"

  * * *