Touch the Sun (13 page)

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The blackest of moods had enveloped Lion by the end of that evening; no amount of Bingham's brandy could dispel it. Ordinarily, the very presence of Marcus Reems set his teeth on edge, but this situation was intolerable, and he couldn't believe he was being forced to endure it in silence. For two hours he sat in a stuffy parlor in the company of four of the people he liked least. Anne Bingham's flawless charm grated on his nerves, and he found himself longing to hear her laugh or even scold as artlessly as Meagan had that day. William seemed more pompous than usual, dropping names into every sentence. Neither of the Binghams, however, caused him a fraction of the irritation that he felt whenever he looked at his future wife. Tonight she was oozing sweetness, clearly confident that Lion and Marcus both craved her attention. She sat between them, giggling and fluttering her long lashes until Lion felt like strangling her.

Marcus was clearly enjoying the situation, positive that Lion's own hatred for him was being compounded by jealousy. He flirted continuously with the willing Priscilla, misinterpreting Lion's black expression for that of a possessive lover.

The tall-case clock in the corner was striking eleven, but Priscilla's laughter rose above it.

"Mr. Reems, how you do run on! Have a care or you'll turn my head!"

A dove in a nearby gilded cage cooed unhappily, and Lion suddenly felt he would go mad if he did not get some air. Standing up, he left the room without a word.

A footman stood patiently in the softly lit hallway, but Lion passed by without his usual friendly greeting. The expansive, lush grounds beckoned to him. Once outside the rear door, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the moist, chilly night air. Crickets chirped in celebration of the impending spring while, overhead, clouds shifted to reveal a profusion of stars against the ebony sky.

The three-acre garden was still quite bleak after the long winter, but Lion could detect the scent of new green life. In the darkness, the large assortment of rare trees and shrubs were budding again, and he found himself cheered at the prospect of that garden in full flower.

He strolled out over the damp lawn, soothed by the cool, pure breeze. Finally, he paused and leaned against one of the new Lombardy poplars, regarding the back of the mansion and trying not to think about his problems. Most of the lights were out by this hour. Single, muted candles burned upstairs in the yet unoccupied bedchambers of the Binghams and Priscilla, while the ground-floor servants' wing was completely dark. Lion did not find that surprising in view of the strict hours kept by the domestic staff, but his curiosity was aroused by the ghostly white fluttering at one of the windows. Welcoming the diversion, he decided to investigate. As he approached, Lion saw that the sash was thrown open and the specter was actually a voluminous white bedgown. Shadows from the trees blocked the moonlight, so he was only a few feet away when he realized the identity of his ghost. It was Meagan.

Common sense told him to turn back before it was too late; another confrontation with her would do his nerves little good. And, in the back of his mind, hidden by his other worries, a seed of guilt had been taking root. Guilt over his recent treatment of the girl. Lion was not accustomed to dealing with his conscience, and he had no desire to begin at this stage of his life.

Indecision made him pause. Silently, he and Meagan regarded one another. Hair unbound and body swimming in the white calico bedgown, she appeared more diminutive than ever. There was nothing childish about her expression, however, for her smoldering eyes communicated a womanlike rage. Lion instinctively accepted the challenge.

"Well," he laughed softly, "if it isn't my favorite little maid!"

Meagan balled her hands into tight fists, biting her lips as she glared at him.

"You look tense," he continued in mock anxiety. "Do not tell me that your day was not sufficiently tiring?" He reached the open window and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Or were you waiting for me?"

She pushed at his chest with all her strength, but he was as solid as a stone wall. "You are odious!" she cried in a half-whisper. "I am awake because I had to finish the work you took me away from this morning!"

Lion's eyes danced with merriment. "Don't go on, Meagan. These effusive thanks are not necessary; I know that you are grateful."

"I do not find you amusing, Captain Hampshire. In fact, I find you hateful! And I don't care if you discharge me for saying so! I never want you to come near me again." She paused for a gulp of air. "What happened today was the most degrading experience of my life!"

His eyes were serious now, holding hers like intense blue magnets. "You only feel degraded because you enjoyed it so much."

"That is a lie! You were a scoundrel! You urged me all these weeks to trust you, to be your friend. In my naïveté, I believed you—and then you betrayed me so horribly. You used me as if I were a common whore!"

"Now, Meagan, I wouldn't go that far—and I didn't! Let's keep this in perspective!" Lion was smiling again, and now he lifted both brows. "By the way, where in the world did an innocent like you acquire that word?"

"From books, I assure you. Certainly not from personal experience!"

"Shh," he admonished, laying a Flynn finger across her lips. "You will make me laugh and then we'll be caught."

"You deserve it!"

"I'll not argue that. The question is—do you?"

Impulsively he reached across the sill for Meagan's hands and kissed the small, cold palms. Even in the darkness her ready flush was not lost on him. Belatedly, she pulled her hands from his.

"You must be deaf, sir! I have asked you most plainly not to touch me again! If you and Priscilla Wade choose to ruin your own lives that is your affair, but I'll not be drawn into your games. Perhaps Clarissa and all your other dimwitted female admirers don't mind being made fools of, but I do. Goodnight!"

Leaning forward, she grasped the casement with both hands and pulled it shut so forcefully that Lion had to jump aside to avoid being hit. Even after the white-gowned figure had disappeared from his view, he remained there under the chestnut tree, rubbing his jaw and wearing a bemused smile.

Chapter 11

Delicious cooking smells filled the roomy, well-equipped kitchen and Meagan lifted her head to inhale them from time to time, smiling dreamily. Three plump chickens were roasting on a spit over the fire, turned by a vacant-eyed serving-girl, while the aroma of baking bread wafted out of the oven.

Meagan sat at the sturdy table with Wickham, Smith, and the long-limbed loose-tongued cook, Bramble. Three of the servants were polishing the Bingham silver, while Bramble simultaneously directed the activity of the rest of the kitchen staff and sliced potatoes with amazing speed. She was also a self-righteous gossip, keeping up a nonstop dialogue punctuated only by the sizzle of chicken fat dripping into the fire.

Smith and Wickham sat together on one side of the table, letting their hands touch from time to time. Meagan had guessed their feelings for one another the first time she saw Smith look at Wickham. There was a radiance in her gentle hazel eyes that was unmistakable. They said little except to each other so Bramble directed most of her conversation at Meagan.

"If you were to ask me, I'd say it's a disgrace!" she exclaimed, and Meagan glanced up quizzically.

"What's that, ma'am?"

Bramble leaned closer, pursing her narrow lips.

"The theater!" she hissed. "I'm told the Assembly passed the bill two days ago, making it legal here again. 'Tis a sin! This city has been known for its purity of spirit, but this be the first step to its ruin. Mark my words!"

Meagan attempted to change the subject. "My, those chickens smell wonderful. I do so admire your ability in the kitchen."

"'Tis only hard work," she sniffed. "I believe in it. Not like some people hereabouts. There are times when my conscience cries at me for working for people like
these."

"The Binghams?"

"What other? They are bad enough, for there is no condition worse than that of quality people letting themselves fall away from virtuous lives. I am truly sickened, however, by the class that is beginning to make itself at home here..." Her knife paused for only a moment before she resumed the rapid slicing. "I do not believe in spreading tales, but of course, it be common knowledge in any case."

"Pardon me?"

"Marcus Reems. A despicable, godless man. I only say this with the hope that as her maid, you may be able to help Mistress Wade."

Meagan had the feeling that some portion of the conversation had escaped her. Marcus Reems and Priscilla? Was this woman unbalanced? Two days had passed since Lion Hampshire had taken her away from Mansion House. Since then, she had become painfully aware of the realities of her new life; all the excitement had gone from the masquerade. She was a common servant, working from dawn to dusk and on into the night, with no time or opportunity to discover the latest news from Priscilla. In any case, her former friend showed no inclination to confide in her. Meagan was beginning to believe that she had forgotten they were ever sisterly companions, for Priscilla's attitude toward her had become as condescending as Anne Bingham's.

Contributing to Meagan's flagging spirits was the fact that she had not had so much as a passing glimpse of Lion Hampshire since their late night conversation at the garden window. Was it possible that he was taking her at her word? Meagan told herself that she was delighted to be rid of him, reminding herself that she found him insolent and presumptuous. Still... all her senses remained alerted to some signal of his presence—his step in the hallway, his scent in the air, the sound of his amused, dry voice, or a glimpse of his broad shoulders. Worst of all, when she slept, Meagan could feel his arms holding her and his mouth against hers. The dream would continue until she reached the limits of her endurance, then she would awaken, feverish and consumed with a strange longing that she was learning to despise.

From snatches of Priscilla's conversation and that of the other household members, Meagan was aware that Priscilla was seeing much more of Lion. Perhaps he had fallen in love with her after all?

"Bramble, whatever does my mistress have to do with Marcus Reems? Surely you know that she is betrothed to Captain Hampshire?"

Bramble laughed humorlessly, showing long teeth.

"'Tis of no consequence to people like these. I
saw
her with that Reems man today. Arm in arm they were, and Captain Hampshire weren't so much as on the grounds."

"I don't understand!"

"What be there to understand? Tis a breed apart, South. Fidelity and righteousness mean nothing to these people!"

Meagan turned her eyes on Wickham and Smith. "Is this true? Is Miss Wade carrying on with Mr. Reems?"

Smith flushed a little, exchanging looks with Wickham. "It is true that he was here today... and Miss Wade entertained him. As far as anything else—"

"It be only a matter of time!" Bramble declared. "Marcus Reems be a hard man—a cruel one to my mind. And he has but one ambition in life."

"What's that?"

"To eclipse Captain Hampshire."

Meagan let the spoon she was polishing fall to the table. Again she looked to Smith.

"I am so confused! Can you tell me what she's talking about? What an odd word to use—eclipse!"

"I shouldn't," Smith began with a sigh, "but Bramble may be right. Perhaps you could offer Miss Wade some advice. Of course, she has no way of knowing, but Mr. Reems and Captain Hampshire have been rivals—perhaps enemies—for a long time now."

"Captain Hampshire despises Mr. Reems with good cause," Wickham said tersely.

"We aren't certain of the reason," Smith continued in her soft voice, "but there have been some general, obvious causes. Marcus Reems is quite a nasty man, and somehow he got it into his head that he didn't like Captain Hampshire."

"Jealous," grunted Wickham, and Bramble nodded in emphatic agreement.

"Perhaps it began over a woman—who knows? But ever since, Mr. Reems has been trying to outshine Captain Hampshire in every way. Unfortunately, it has grown worse since the China trade began. Captain Hampshire has done so well and Mr. Reems wrecked his first ship—dashed it to pieces. Mr. Bingham won't give him the backing he gives Captain Hampshire, so the bad feelings have increased. At any rate, his appearances here the other night and today seem to be signs of trouble ahead. Worse, Mrs. Bingham is charmed by the man and has given him an open invitation."

"In that case, Miss Wade must also find him charming," Meagan said dryly.

Wickham brought his black brows together. "That is what we all fear."

At that moment one of the downstairs maids burst into the room. "There's a guest for tea!"

"Heaven's upon us," muttered Bramble. "I'll prepare the cart." She jabbed a bony finger at Meagan. "Change that apron and you will serve."

Surprised, Meagan dashed along a back corridor to her bedchamber where she hurriedly discarded her gray-smudged apron, replacing it with a fresh one of stiff taffeta. She tucked rebellious black curls back under her mobcap while retracing her steps to the kitchen. Miraculously, Bramble had assembled an assortment of cakes on the tea cart, along with a steaming china pot and matching cups.