Touch the Sun (17 page)

"Well, there are tedious days like this, but the evenings will make up for them. Especially when you receive the finished gowns and are able to enjoy them!"

"I suppose..." She was watching the other carriages and pedestrians with languid green eyes. "Didn't you say that Clarissa Claussen lived on High Street?"

"Yes!" Anne leaned forward to look outside. "There is the house—the third one!"

"It looks as though it needs paint," Priscilla's observed in acid tones.

"Probably. Edgar Claussen was once one of Philadelphia's most prominent citizens, one of the early leaders in sea trade. He had five daughters older than Clarissa and his wife died giving birth to her. He is seventy or more now and has had a hard time of it, what with the war, raising his daughters and finding husbands for them, and then losing two ships when the China trade opened up. He has little money left and I think he is just waiting to die... Clarissa is the only child left at home and is poorly supervised, as one might guess."

Anne's voice trailed off as they both caught sight of a familiar dark head descending from the perch of a black and green phaeton.

"Driver!" called Anne. "Stop!"

Marcus Reems had just started up the Claussens' front steps when he heard Anne's greeting. Momentarily, he considered ignoring it, but then Priscilla joined in. He turned back reluctantly. In the rose-hued twilight, the two faces in the landau looked nearly identical and utterly lovely.

"Ladies! What a pleasure it is to see you both; it is just the refreshment I needed after a tiring day."

At that moment, the front door flew open to reveal Clarissa, oddly flushed and agitated. "Marcus! I thought you would never get here! Wait until you hear—"

"Miss Claussen, I am equally anxious to learn what your father has to say to me. Please tell him that I shall be in as soon as I bid these lovely ladies good evening."

Her sky-blue eyes shifted in confusion to follow Marcus's gesturing hand. From the covered landau, Priscilla and Anne met her gaze with raised eyebrows.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt, Mr. Reems." She smiled and nodded at the landau. "Mrs. Bingham, Miss Wade..."

Hastily the door was closed. Marcus looked back in some relief, giving Priscilla his best debonair smile. "Such an excitable girl. One would think her father ruled the world!"

"Are you certain your business is with Mr. Claussen and not his daughter?" Priscilla queried archly.

Marcus flinched imperceptibly, recovering his wits in the space of a deep breath. His sharp instincts told him that Priscilla was only jealous, and his first stab of panic was lost under a wave of euphoria. He moved toward the carriage, reaching in to take her hand. She colored prettily.

"Miss Wade, do I detect a possessive note in your voice?" He kept his own tone light and properly teasing. "You must know that no man with eyes and a heart could notice any woman but you."

"I wish that were true, Mr. Reems," Priscilla responded, faintly tragic.

"For
me,
it is." He kissed her fingertips, then carefully repeated the gesture with Anne Bingham's hand. "I fear I must bid you ladies adieu. Mr. Claussen must be most impatient."

"We must be going as well," said Anne. "William and Lion will be waiting for us."

"Oh?"

"We are having an early supper; then the men are taking us to Southwark Theater for the first performance of
The Roman Father."

"More irony! I am planning to attend myself. Alone..." He turned sad gold eyes on Priscilla.

"Perhaps we shall see you there."

"I shall retain that hope. Until then..." Marcus closed the door and stood back as the landau rolled back onto High Street. The women waved, and as he watched the carriage turning right at Third Street, his expression changed from forlorn to slyly confident.

* * *

Some stray remnant of good fortune saw Meagan home before the return of Anne and Priscilla. Smith greeted her in the servants' hall with a gasp of relief, setting down the taper which she was using to light the house's candles.

"Meagan! I've been frantic! I couldn't imagine you purposely letting yourself be missed, so I was convinced that some harm had come to you. I should never have let you go off alone!"

In spite of herself, Meagan smiled. "I'm sorry if I worried you. Truly. I didn't mean to be late... I just went out too far and I suppose I misjudged the time."

Smith inclined her head, eyeing the disheveled girl quizzically. "Well, did you enjoy yourself? Where did you go?"

Ignoring the first question, Meagan answered simply, "Out to Markwood Villa. I hurt my ankle and had to rest for a while." She backed away, trying not to favor her injured leg. "I must go now and tidy myself before Miss Wade returns. I can't imagine what has kept them out so long."

After she had gone, Smith continued along down the paneled hallway, lighting the candles and wondering how Meagan had learned the name of Markwood Villa.

In her room, Meagan poured tepid water into her basin and numbly began to wash. When she slipped her gown off, she stood before the hazy mirror that hung over the washstand and stared at her bare arms and shoulders. It seemed impossible that only an hour before, Lion's mouth and skin had been touching hers. Slowly she pulled the pins from her tumbled hair and watched, hypnotized, as she brushed it, welcoming the painful pull of each tangle. Finally she began to twist the gleaming jet-colored stream of hair, fastening it atop her head.

Then she saw it. A faint, rose colored bruise below the downy base of her hairline, a few inches from the nape of her neck. The color of a kiss, if such existed. Meagan's heart began to race, her chin trembled, and she closed her eyes against the scalding tears even as she put her fingers over the mark Lion had left.

The memory of him engulfed her—the hard yet gentle touch of his hands, the intoxicating scent of his golden skin, the pressure of his lips that set her afire, and the remarkable, magical feeling of being held in his arms, of lying against, fusing with his warm, muscular body...

She let the tears come, and with them came an exquisite, agonizing pain that seemed to begin in her breast and spread to every corner of her body. For the first time, she was conscious of a burning ache between her legs which reminded her of her plight more eloquently than any words.

Finally, her tears were spent and Meagan felt somewhat revived. She got up to look into the mirror again, searching her reflection. Slowly she felt her innate, headstrong determination infuse her being.

When in my life have I ever allowed another person to hurt me? she thought almost incredulously. Since I was little girl, I've known not to rely on anyone else for my happiness... not even Mother and Father. Is there any reason to allow a—a rogue like Lion Hampshire to cause me such anguish now? I have made a terrible mistake, but from now on I shall do just as I've always done—look out for myself. I don't need anything from him, or from Priscilla either!

Strength came to her in a heady rush as she dressed. Her eyes sparkled and her hair shone in the lamplight as she tied a crisp apron over her black dress. Her creamy skin was glowing, two smudges of rosy emotion brushed across her cheekbones.

I will simply leave this town and go elsewhere. A fresh start is what I need! As soon as I can save—

A sharp knock sounded at the door as Meagan was reaching for her mobcap. Instead, she hurried over to see who it was. A tall, starched kitchen maid stood in the hallway, her bony hand poised to knock again.

"Is Miss Wade back?" Meagan asked her.

"Yes, but they've gone straight to supper, no time to change clothes, and she didn't request you until now. You're to go directly to the green parlor where they're having their wine."

Closing the door, Meagan joined her in the hall and rushed on alone, only limping slightly, toward the front of the house.

At that moment, in the green parlor, Lion Hampshire was standing by the fireplace, one elbow propped against the elegantly carved mantel. Lazily, his blue eyes flickered across the room, resting on William Anne, and finally Priscilla. She was looking particularly beautiful in an emerald-green striped gown, its bosom fashionably puffed out to accentuate her tiny waist. A green collarette encircled her long neck, while her auburn curls were dressed in the latest style, full on the sides, with a looped-up queue in back. The excessive coiffure only served to make her lovely face seem more fragile, her green eyes larger.

Out of the corner of one of those eyes, Priscilla perceived that Lion was watching her. Attempting a coquettish smile, she tipped her head slightly so that her best profile was visible to him.

Lion sighed inwardly as she finally started across the room after waiting in vain for him to make the first move. In spite of her physical beauty, which was now nearly equal to Anne Bingham's own, there was something about Priscilla that repelled him. She was affected, so shallow and vain... Lion took a drink of wine and looked down into the swirling blood-red liquid. Unbidden, Meagan's piquant face filled his mind and he felt a sharp twinge of longing, mingled with the now familiar guilt. She didn't deserve the treatment he had given her although until the moment he had seen that tell-tale blood on her leg he had not realized she was in over her head. Who had ever heard of a serving-girl as pretty and personable as Meagan staying a virgin? He couldn't imagine James Wade letting her escape his bed. Still... it was a relief. He knew he had no business feeling relief or any other emotion for an ordinary maid, especially in his position now. Yet, how uncommon she was! The stinging guilt returned as he remembered her ever-hopeful, strained expression that day in the twilight, the bright tears that shone in her eyes.

"I declare, Lion Hampshire, you must be a million miles away!" Priscilla was at his elbow, her voice petulant. "I've been standing right here for a full minute!"

"Not a full minute! Milady, I humbly beg your pardon." The tone of his voice belied his words and Priscilla looked at him suspiciously.

"You are a puzzle to me. I never know what to think—"

"My dear, I am exactly what I seem. Do not invent mysteries where none exist." He sipped his wine, glancing up to see Meagan come into the room. No longer the pale, tearful girl to whom he had said goodbye at the edge of town, she was now defiantly radiant. Seeing the naked emotion flash in Lion's eyes, Priscilla turned her head to follow his gaze.

For Meagan, the shock of seeing him there affected her like a hard slap in the face, and for a brief moment she faltered. He had never looked more handsome, and as always, he emanated an intangible charisma that made his mere presence in a room stimulating. Snowy white breeches fit against his muscular thighs and narrow hips, above which he wore a rich, dark blue velvet coat that emphasized his wide shoulders. Meagan saw the pleated frill of his cuff, so white against the hand which held his drink. On his other hand, which rested on the mantel, a plain gold signet ring glinted in the candlelight.

She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. Her cheeks burned, but in her expression there was no trace of the vulnerability she had shown earlier. Her eyes were a smoldering violet, flashing with hostility, and Lion raised a brow in surprise. Obviously the minx had too much spirit to suffer on his account!

Meagan ignored him from that moment until she left the parlor. She addressed herself only to Priscilla, who informed her that they were attending the theater later in the evening and she wanted her apricot satin gown to be aired.

"You may attend me in my chamber at half after eight," she finished, her tone completely remote. One of Meagan's delicate eyebrows lifted slightly in silent revolt as she curtsied, bobbing her head mindlessly. Lion found himself grinning at her retreating figure, unaware of Anne Bingham's watchful eyes across the room.

Meagan stopped in the shadowy hallway, leaning against the wall until the trembling subsided. The powerful yearning to be near Lion, to press her face against his wide, hard chest and feel his arms around her, was something that she could neither control nor fathom.

Tears sprang into her eyes as she thought, he takes his pleasure with me in the afternoon and pauses only long enough to change into his finest clothes before dining with his fiancée and escorting
her
to the theater!

She fought back the tears and straightened her back, clenching her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Resolving to fight her weakness, she thought, Lion Hampshire can have his precious Priscilla, but he can't have me. His
friend
! What a silly fool I have been!

When she turned toward the kitchen, she saw Flynn's slight, dark-haired form coming around the corner. His puckish grin warmed and relaxed her and she found herself welcoming the distraction he provided.

"Hello, Flynn! What are you looking so cheerful about?" She was surprised to see him blush in the dim amber light.

"The prospect o' seein' you, miss. Might I say that you are lookin' rare beauteous tonight?"

"Why, thank you. I don't believe you, but it's a lovely compliment all the same. And you mustn't call me 'miss' as though I live rather than work here! My name is Meagan."

"I'd be pleased to call you Meagan. If you'll pardon me again, you seem better bred than the richest women I've met." He flashed his disarming grin, black eyes dancing. "I'm famous for tellin' the truth, so you're obligated to believe me."

Meagan laughed, delighting in the lessening of the bitter pain in her breast. "You are too kind."

"I'd be honored if you would call me by my Christian name—Kevin."

"Kevin! The name suits you."

"'Tis a long while since I've heard it."

"Not if the stories I've heard about you are true! I understand you have a bevy of female admirers."

They were walking slowly toward the kitchen and Flynn halted at her words, clasping a hand against his chest with an elaborate grimace.

"Untrue! You see before ye a lonely man! Who has spread such slander?"

"Did you forget? It was—" The name died on her lips along with her smile, and Flynn glimpsed raw suffering in her eyes. Quickly, in bewilderment, he fumbled for a new subject.