Touch the Sun (39 page)

Outside, the fury of the storm seemed to increase. Meagan could hear tree branches slapping the stucco exterior of the house while other limbs broke with loud snaps. The wind howled eerily over the noisy tattoo of the rain. Meagan lifted the lid of the blanket chest, peering closer in the darkness as she chose three carefully folded quilts.

Suddenly, a loud creak on the planked floor sent a chill up her spine. The chest's lid dropped with a bang and Meagan spun around just in time to see the dressing-room door swing closed. The pounding of her heart was deafening. For a moment, fear immobilized her, then, clasping the blankets, she ran out into the hall and down the long stairway.

Heaven's presence was reassuring, but Meagan had a feeling that her horse would be little protection from a ghost.

"It would probably serve me right," she muttered, spreading a quilt on the floor beneath Heaven and putting a second one over her back. "A fitting reward for a girl who runs away from home, who lies, who lets herself be bedded by a betrothed libertine, who thinks she can defeat a storm..."

Miserably, she wrapped a down-filled comforter around her own shivering body and perched on the stairway. Addressing an attentive Heaven, she exclaimed, "It would serve Lion right as well. 'Devil's spawn!' For once, Bramble was not too severe in her judgment! I wonder if he would have the decency to feel guilty if I were killed by Markwood's ghost?" She smiled rather diabolically. "I could haunt this place as well! Wouldn't that make for an interesting marriage between Lion and Priscilla!"

There was a crashing noise almost directly above them that wiped the smile from Meagan's face, replacing it with a look of wide-eyed terror. Perhaps, she thought wildly, it had come from the roof. A large branch could have been blown against it...

She clenched her teeth to still her trembling chin, pulling the blanket closer. The only sound was the pounding of her heart, which seemed to fill her head as well as her breast, until Heaven suddenly pricked her ears in the direction of the front door.

Fear cascaded over her when she saw the doorknob begin to turn...

Chapter 33

Lion burst through the door, looking like a wild, wet animal. His eyes were stormy; rain highlighted the planes of his bronzed face, while his quickly donned clothing clung to every steely muscle.

Relief and joy warred with fury and outrage in Meagan. She wanted to fly into his arms and hold fast to his broad shoulders, but pride forced her to remember the injury so recently dealt her.

So Lion was rewarded for his perilous ride by the sight of Meagan lifting her chin. The eyes he loved so well were narrowed, their soft color hidden behind a barrier of lush black lashes.

How tiny she appeared! The stairs surrounding her seemed endless, and Meagan looked like a pitiful waif all wrapped in her blanket, wet ebony hair drying into a wealth of curls, until his eyes reached her face and saw that stubborn, challenging expression. She might be a female, fragile in appearance, but her spirit was proving to be as strong as his own.

"What do you want?" she demanded in a voice that quavered only slightly.

"What the devil do you mean?" he shouted. "I risked my life to come after you—to make certain you hadn't gotten yourself killed in this storm! And you act as though I'm dropping by at an inconvenient moment! I regret that I was unable to send word of my imminent arrival!"

Meagan stood up, wishing she could match his imposing height as he strode nearer. "Oh, that's right! Pretend as though you weren't the cause of my coming out today! The reason why I couldn't turn back—"

"Have you taken leave of your senses? You would kill yourself over that ridiculous story spread by Bramble?"

"Bramble is not addlebrained. Would you tell me that she made it up?"

"No, but—"

Eyes spitting purple fire, Meagan turned to run up the stairway, dropping the blanket en route. Lion took the steps three at a time and, halfway up, caught her elbow. Angrily, he spun her around.

"Have you no faith at all in me?"

"Faith? Why should you expect that? After all, I have been the one to deny your fidelity to Priscilla! I should be well aware of your weaknesses—"

"Bitch!" He gripped her other arm, shaking her once so that her head snapped back. "You insist on soiling the one fine thing in either of our lives! Perhaps it's time you learned the difference between sweet and sour..."

One long, lean arm moved to hook behind her knees. Meagan's head was spinning against Lion's hard shoulder as he carried her into his future bedchamber and tossed her on the huge bed. Her clothing was still wet; thin muslin molded itself to her body and Meagan blushed under his bold scrutiny, conscious of her cold, wet nipples so plainly outlined against the sheerness of her bodice.

There was something in his eyes, in the tension of his hard-muscled body, that frightened her. She had seen this side of him before, but always in relation to a third person—Priscilla, Kevin, Clarissa, or Marcus. His eyes flashed. His jaw was set ominously, and Meagan saw a muscle move across it: a bad sign. His wet tanned skin was stretched over a network of muscles and tendons, each one taut with rage that Meagan felt powerless to diminish.

Shrugging out of his leather coat, Lion walked closer to the bed, his eyes never leaving her. She was feeling quite alarmed by this time and made an instinctive attempt to escape off the other side of the bed, but he easily caught her arm, pulling her back roughly.

"My dear, I think you may have failed to perceive the true extent of my past gallantry toward you. You have persisted in the notion that I regard you as, if I may quote you—a prostitute. It would seem that my repeated denials have not been taken seriously. I begin to chafe under your constant vilification of my character and my motives.

"This morning has broken my patience. Since you refuse to be persuaded by gentler means, you force me to change my tactics. Perhaps this argument will convince you that my
past
treatment of you has not been as wicked as you suppose..."

His grip tightened on her arm and for a moment their eyes met and locked, as charged as the angry storm outside. Meagan was chilled and baffled by Lion's speech; his deadly calm frightened her more than any amount of shouting.

"Take your hands off me."

White teeth flashed when Lion laughed coldly in response. "Not this time. I am about to give you a lesson in the true nature of the relationship between a man and his whore." His smile was humorless. "Rule One: the woman keeps her mouth closed unless she is being kissed. Naturally, since she is being used, her feelings are immaterial."

"Lion! You scurrilous beast! If you think I am going to stay here and put up with this insanity, you have another think coming! Now, let me go!"

"No." His eyes were so hard, like a cat stalking its prey. Already wet and chilled, Meagan began to shake; she had never been in a situation where she felt so powerless.

"I will hate you forever if you do this," she cried hotly, struggling against the dark hands which held her forearms like iron bands. Lion did not reply, merely narrowing his eyes before pulling her up to meet his lips. When Meagan twisted her head back and forth to avoid the kiss, he let go of her arms and transferred his hands to her head. The pressure of his palms was like a vise, but still Meagan felt a sharp, searing response as their mouths came together. Helplessly, she tried to keep her lips pressed coldly together under the fiery roughness of Lion's, but it was impossible. As she kissed him back, angry tears of frustration sprang up in her eyes, and somehow she managed to stop her arms from embracing his neck.

Instead, she struck out, alternately hitting and scratching, but seldom making contact. Within seconds, Lion caught both her wrists with his left hand and cuffed her across the face with his right. The blow carried more humiliation than pain. Meagan's cheeks burned; she prepared to spit at him, but he cupped her chin hard.

"I wouldn't do that." Still holding her delicate wrists, Lion calmly unfastened the damp muslin gown with his free hand. Her flesh was thoroughly chilled, and his lean fingers were warm and dry in contrast. The leather coat and boots, doeskin gloves, and fawn breeches had done much to protect Lion's body from the drenching rain, though his hair and upper torso remained damp.

The gauzy dress was removed. Lion's eyes remained opaque as he gripped Meagan's waist over her thin chemise and pulled her against the length of his body. Steely arms enfolded her, pinning her own at her sides as he yanked her raven hair to force her head back.

The kiss which followed was impersonal, hot, and degrading. Meagan felt as though she were in the arms of a cruel stranger, yet she was still beset by familiar currents of fire when his mouth moved along the line of her throat. The rational part of her brain was determined to surpass Lion's coolness, but it was impossible.

The shift in mood came so gradually that neither of them noticed. Lion had planned to push Meagan back into the bed, but when they moved onto it together, it didn't even register with him. His touch was gentler when he slid her chemise down, and it was no stranger's mouth that grazed her breasts.

She wanted to pull his hair or kick between his legs, but flying would have been more possible. The chemise was being eased over her hips, then warm lips touched her cold belly. Desire was a consuming ache that throbbed wherever his hands or mouth touched. When Meagan reached up helplessly to trace the familiar lines of his face and shoulders, the depth of her plight hit her like the stab of a knife. Salty tears filled her eyes and spilled down her temples.

"I hate you!" she choked. "Hate you! Hate—" Her voice broke on a sob as Lion parted her legs to find the eager sweetness awaiting him.

* * *

To the casual observer, Marcus Reems seemed to be exceptionally confident at all times. However, this aura of self-assurance was usually contrived; Marcus had spent two decades learning to camouflage his emotions. No one could have guessed, except Lion Hampshire perhaps, that he was constantly plagued by insecurity. It ate at him insidiously. Whenever he accomplished something he thought he wanted, he had only to look for Lion to discover that he remained always a step behind, and until he had what Lion had, until Lion was envying
him,
Marcus would never be satisfied.

Tonight, however, his cool self-confidence was genuine. At last, luck seemed ready to shine on him and cast its shadow over Lion. Even the storm seemed an appropriate omen... Marcus took another long drink of Claussen's exceedingly fine cognac, enjoying the sensation of it running down his throat. Hot velvet, he thought, and welcome on a night as black and rainy as this.

His gold tiger eyes swept the room, cynically appraising the carved furniture with its bright, flame-stitched upholstery. At length, he located the clock. The chit had kept him waiting nearly half an hour! If his news were not so juicy, Marcus wouldn't have bothered to stay, but...

The double doors leading to the stair hall swung open and Clarissa swept into the room. She was clad in a stylish gown of Ming green muslin over cream silk, but the smile she gave Marcus was tight and forced.

"Well, I see Papa has furnished you with ample refreshment."

"Little enough in return for my patience."

"I don't recall inviting you."

"You'll wish you had when you hear my news. Sit down, darling, and try not to look so disagreeable."

"Lovely weather we're having," Clarissa said peevishly as she lay back on a daybed and watched as Marcus refilled his glass. When he turned to meet her eyes again, she was startled by the wicked smile that lit his face before he spoke.

"You have not met with Lion alone since our ill-fated kidnap attempt—am I right? How long has it been? Three, four weeks? No wonder you look so... pinched."

"You know perfectly well how long it's been!" Clarissa snapped, pulling nervously at the edges of her gown. "And don't remind me, for your own sake! You
promised
me, Marcus, that you would find another way, and thus far—"

"You really must curb these shrewish tendencies, darling, if you plan to be a suitable wife for our Lion." He paused, smiling catlike over the rim of his glass as he took a slow drink. "Did you truly imagine that I would fail? Clarissa, my sweet, we shall both see this affair to a happy conclusion."

His manner was so cool that Clarissa felt a bright spark of hope flare in her heart. Suddenly, her cheeks grew pink, her movements animated, and she crossed the room to sit beside Marcus.

"Don't tease me!" she implored. "Tell me your news!"

"That is better." He caressed her cheek lightly. "I have just come from Mansion House. The library was so cozy and intimate tonight... I hadn't seen Priscilla for a few days and it seems that there have been a number of new developments in her life."

"Yes?" Clarissa's eyes were almost feverishly bright.

"My sweet Southern charmer has been keeping things from me. If she had confided in me earlier, it would have saved you and me many days of worry." Marcus paused to light a cigar, obviously enjoying the increased suspense.