Touch the Sun (15 page)

She wheeled Victoria around toward the road before Lion could reply, biting her lip to keep from smiling.

Part 2

If the heart of a man is deprest with Cares

The mist is dispell'd when a Woman appears;

Like the notes of a Fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly

Raises the Spirits and charms our Ears,

Roses and Lilies her Cheeks disclose,

But her ripe Lips are more sweet than those.

Press her,

Caress her,

With Blisses,

Her Kisses

Dissolve us in Pleasure, and soft Repose.

—John Gay

The Beggar's Opera
(1728)

Chapter 12

The approach to Markwood Villa was badly neglected. Wild grass had grown over much of the rutted road, but Lion's roan seemed sure of his footing and Victoria did well by following him. Since turning off the main road, neither Lion nor Meagan had spoken. Meagan reviewed in her mind the half-hour ride south, warming when she remembered the way he had laughed so frequently and with such obvious enjoyment. They had talked and teased, but no mention was made of their past physical encounters, and she was grateful to him for that.

Rounding the crest of a hill, they suddenly came into a large, open circular drive which led to the villa itself. Lion stopped, looking back at Meagan.

"What do you think?"

The house was much larger than anything she had seen in Philadelphia, yet different from the country mansions of Virginia. Its design was predictably Georgian, but instead of red brick it was a muted gray, its grooved stuccoed surface simulating stone masonry. There were handsome Palladian windows across the front, while the white doorway stood out, complete with pilaster, a fanlight, and a large pediment at the top. Yet, the shrubs which grew around the drive were in sad need of trimming and the house itself seemed shabby in spite of its magnificence.

"It's a wonderful place... but who lives here?"

Lion threw back his head, laughing in delight. Sunlight illuminated his handsome features and Meagan felt a familiar tingle run through her at the sight of his irresistible smile.

"Ah, Meagan," he murmured fondly, "you are the most novel female!"

She began to feel rather foolish and raised her chin at him. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it is rude to make fun of people? If I had a fan, I would swat you with it."

Lion appeared to be on the verge of a fresh burst of laughter, but for her sake, he managed to restrain himself. She saw an odd warmth infuse his expression, and when he spoke, his tone was gentler.

"I humbly beg your forgiveness for my behavior, Miss South. And I am sorry that you do not have a fan. I doubtless deserve to be swatted." One side of his mouth quirked slightly. "It is my fault for not explaining earlier—about the villa. It has been empty for several years now—abandoned and untended. The owner, Andrew Markwood, was a British Loyalist. When the English were in occupation in Philadelphia, Markwood invited some officers to lodge here. Unfortunately, a neighbor returned home after Yorktown; a man who happened to be fanatically loyal to the American cause. At that time, the Loyalists were badly persecuted, but this fellow rather overdid his part. He and Markwood argued several times and it all ended in a duel. Markwood was killed and his family took the money that remained and booked passage to England with a group of British soldiers who were on their way home. Markwood Villa was confiscated by the government and has been empty ever since, while the superstitions have grown around its past as fast as the weeds in its garden. Now, there's not a woman in Philadelphia would permit her husband to buy it."

The horses had reached the front steps and Lion drew in on his reins and swung lightly to the ground. Meagan went tense when his strong hands encircled her waist to lift her down.

"Why are you interested in this house, then?" she asked, glad for the diversion. "It looks like it would take a great deal of work to restore it."

After tying the horses to a large oak tree, Lion started up the steps to the front door.

"That's what I'm here to decide—exactly how much work would be involved. This was a showplace a dozen years ago, and I think it's a crime to let it decay because of a lot of ridiculous, wild tales."

Meagan leaned around his elbow as he tried the door. "What sort of wild tales?"

"Oh, people are convinced that Markwood's spirit is still in this house. Every now and then someone claims to have seen him," he replied in an offhand tone.

The door swung open with a long creak and Lion stepped inside, only to feel Meagan pull at his sleeve. Her feet were rooted to the doorsill.

"People have seen him?" she echoed in a high voice.

"Meagan! I thought you were too intelligent to believe such nonsense! I was teasing you when I said that you were chickenhearted, but perhaps—"

"Oh, all right! I suppose you can protect me if we should encounter Mr. Markwood."

"That's the spirit." He put an arm around her shoulder. "You must take an oath not to tell Priscilla about these tales if I should decide to buy the house. I have a feeling she would adapt easily to the role of the hysterical wife."

"I won't say a word to her, but I cannot make promises for Anne Bingham."

Lion wasn't listening. His keen eyes were scanning the entry hall and Meagan followed his gaze. Mouse and bird droppings were scattered across the patterned brick floor, and the furnishings that had been left behind were covered with a layer of gray dust. The air was pungent with must.

Still, Markwood Villa's innate elegance shone through. Meagan held on to Lion's arm as they toured the house, never quite losing her uneasiness although Lion was clearly ebullient. He was obviously pleased with what he saw and Meagan, in spite of everything, was inclined to agree with him.

The walls were beautifully paneled, while above them ran intricately decorated stucco ceilings, works of art in themselves. A stunning, though dirty, Turkey carpet covered the parlor floor and a tile-faced fireplace dominated the east wall of the room.

Meagan was speechless at the sight of the staircase, which consisted of an elaborate, amazing arrangement of trellises, once painted white but now yellowed and peeling. Lion told her that the style was called Chinese Chippendale and Meagan declared that she had never seen such a thing in Virginia.

Upstairs, the rooms continued the pattern of basic loveliness with handsome woodwork and ceilings and well-designed bedchambers, each with its own painted floorcloth. Meagan trailed along as Lion examined every corner of the house; then, finally, they went outside to explore the grounds. The sun shone so brightly overhead that Meagan felt silly to have worried about encountering a spirit. The gardens were badly overgrown, the boxwood borders choked by weeds and vines. Still, there was a kind of beauty about the place that was undeniably appealing.

"Well?" Lion asked abruptly. He had not dropped Meagan's hand and she was suddenly very conscious of his touch.

"I love it. I honestly do! I must say, it's a far cry from the classic simplicity of Southern homes, but it has a certain quality..."

"Charm. Personality. I am totally in favor of this new style that Washington is bringing with him to the North, but I am not particularly worried about following the current mode myself. Once the house is finished, it will be a warm and inviting place to be."

"Your home in Philadelphia already fits that description. Why do you need this place?"

"It is the accepted thing to do! All the upper class have summer homes where they can escape the 'horrid crush' of the city. I must do what is expected of creditable men these days, you know!"

Meagan glanced up at the cynical tone in his voice. "I do not understand you."

"It is not your place to understand," he returned brusquely.

"But, if you are so eager to do what is correct, why choose
this
estate? Certainly you could find a more acceptable—"

"I know. And there's the rub. I know that I have to do a lot of things that I despise, so to keep a fraction of my self-respect, I cannot resist rebelling just a bit. The whole affair has become an absurd sham. The only thing that keeps me going is that goal..." His expression softened. "When I feel like telling everyone to go to hell, I force myself to remember that summer in the Constitutional Convention. I truly believe that if I can have that every day, I will be able to endure all the rest."

"It's a shame," Meagan said softly, her eyes on the brick walkway.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I think it is a shame that you should be forced to become a hypocrite just to have a career that is supposed to be so moral and honest. It doesn't make sense."

"Well, perhaps the day will come when my status will be such that I can do as I please without fear of retribution. But, for now, this is the only way I can get into Congress
soon.
My reputation is in sad repair and it will take a great deal of redemption on my part to mend it."

Meagan stopped and looked up at him. "You won't like my saying this, but I don't think this act of yours will work. I believe that your character is too strong for you to play it out. Someone like William Bingham or James Wade, perhaps, but not you."

"I happen to take the opposite view," he shot back. "I am counting on my strong will to carry me through. Are you finished now with these wise observations?"

Meagan saw his jawline harden, but he met her brave gaze with eyes that held a gleam of admiration.

After a long moment, he spoke again. "Your nerve is excessive. It irritates the hell out of me, but at the same time, I do appreciate your honesty." He paused, allowing a slight smile to flicker at his lips. "Just don't get carried away. You wouldn't want to make me mad. I tend to lose all reason when I get angry enough."

Meagan relaxed at the sight of his indulgent smile, forgetting herself as she stared at his splendid face. His eyes were a vivid sea-blue, and they seemed to sparkle with a life all their own, while his sculpted features radiated vitality and strength. Right now, his expression was one of wry amusement.

"Meagan, what can you be staring at so assiduously? Is there a wart forming on my nose?"

She flushed with embarrassment. "You are tactless, sir."

Lion laughed out at that, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing her fingers. "What a statement! To coin a phrase of Doctor Franklin's, the pot is calling the kettle black!"

Her hand burned under the pressure of his lips. Suddenly flooded by panic, she pulled away from him and stumbled on into the overgrown garden. Why do I always go to pieces when he is near? she thought in frightened bewilderment. Why did I ever agree to come with him today when I told him only a few nights ago that I wanted nothing to do with him?

The garden gave way to uncleared land, mostly oak and elm trees which grew close together. Meagan welcomed their shelter, for her breath burned in her throat and her eyes stung. Unexpectedly, a thick gray root which had burst its cover of dirt caught her foot and sent her reeling sideways against the nearest tree trunk. Her hands grasped at the ragged bark and she regained her balance, but a sharp pain twisted up her leg when she tried the injured foot.

"Oh, dear God," she choked, "what next?"

Lion came into view then, his eyes unreadable as he drew near. Wretchedly, she covered her face to hide tear-filled eyes. Lean, gentle fingers cupped her trembling chin and through a blur she saw a half-smile playing about his lips.

"Have I said something amiss? My only intent was to amuse you, sweeting, but you have surely shaken my confidence in my wit!"

In spite of herself, Meagan felt a bubble of laughter rise in her throat. Forgetting her ankle she reached out to cuff his arm and suddenly gasped in pain. Lion's arms went around her back, holding her up, as Meagan dissolved into gulping sobs and pressed her wet face against his fawn coat.

"My ankle!" she cried at last, though it was but a part of her distress. Relief showed on Lion's face, for he was infinitely more comfortable dealing with physical pain than the emotional sort. Slipping an arm under her knees, he lifted her effortlessly off the ground and carried her through the trees until they gained sight of a charming gazebo-like schoolroom which stood in a clearing.