The Emerald Swan, page 33
"I have business with your lodgers," Miranda explained, moving past him into the interior of the shop.
"They've up an' left," the man said, following her in. He picked at his teeth with a grimy fingernail, trying to dislodge a stringy strand of bacon from between his front teeth.
"But they can't have." It was so absurd, Miranda laughed. She made for the stairs.
"Eh, I tell yer, they ain't there no more."
And Miranda now knew it. The silence from the chamber at the head of the stairs was deafening. Her heart beating fast, she raced upward, lifted the latch, and flung open the door. The small chamber was deserted, the window still shuttered. Chip leaped in and then jumped into her arms with a distressful cluttering, covering his face with his hands and peering through his fingers at the empty space.
"They can't have gone," Miranda whispered, still unable to believe the evidence of her eyes. She opened the shutters, flooding the room with sunlight. Something caught her eye in the corner and she picked it up. It was a scratched wooden top that Robbie played with. Jebediah had fashioned it for him in an unusually mellow mood.
Tears started in her eyes. Tears of betrayal, of disbelief, of loss. She turned to the cobbler, who had followed her up and was now standing in the door.
"Why did they go?"
" 'Ow should I know?" He shrugged. "Paid up and left yesterday mornin'. "
"But they didn't say anything to me. They couldn't go without saying anything to me." She realized she was almost shouting, as if trying to convince the cobbler of something she knew for a fact but that he persisted stubbornly in denying.
"Don't take on so, lassie," he said, softening at her obvious distress. "Per'aps the gentleman what came to see 'em 'ad summat to do wi' it. Mebbe he drove 'em away in an 'urry."
"Gentleman!" Miranda stepped closer to him. "What gentleman?"
"Dunno 'is name, but a right proper lord, 'e was. Come straight up 'ere as if 'e knew 'em right well. Then 'e went out wi' two of 'em. The big woman and one of the men… That's the last I saw of 'im. T'others come back after a while, an' they pays me an' off they goes. The littl'un was wailin' summat awful."
"Robbie," Miranda whispered. She had a dreadful pain in her chest and she was finding it hard to breathe properly." This gentleman. Did he have black hair? No beard? Brown eyes?" She knew the answer but it was still impossible to believe.
The cobbler frowned and sucked his front teeth. "Can't say as I remember 'im. Tall, 'e was. Aye, black 'air, an' no beard."
Why?
Miranda pushed past the cobbler and stumbled down the stairs, Chip still clutched in the crook of her arm. Why would Gareth send her family away? He knew how important they were to her. He'd heard her telling them she was coming back with clothes for Robbie. Why? And where had they gone?
She ran back through the streets to Ludgate. The pain in her chest was growing fiercer, tighter, as if she'd been stabbed; and it was like a stab wound, this dreadful knowledge of betrayal. So unfair, so unjust, so without reason.
She raced through the gates and down the road to the Strand, heedless of the startled glances she drew. She was sobbing for breath, sobbing with anger, sobbing with pain.
The gates of the house stood open to admit a drayman's cart laden with wine barrels for Lord Harcourt's cellars. Miranda darted into the courtyard, heedless of the watchman's shout behind her, up the stairs, and into the house. She ran up the great staircase, along the corridor, and flung open the door to Lord Harcourt's chamber.
Gareth was barefoot, dressed only in his britches. He spun from the washstand, razor in hand, lather smothering his face. "God's blood! What are you doing in here? What are you doing in those clothes?" He grabbed a towel and wiped his face. "Get out of here, Miranda."
"Why?" she demanded. "Why did you send them away? It was you, wasn't it? You sent them away!"
Gareth glanced over her shoulder at the door she'd left open. He strode past her and slammed it. He spoke softly, yet with fierce intensity. "Now, listen, you are about to ruin everything. Go back to your chamber. Get dressed properly. Then we'll talk about this."
Miranda shook her head, her eyes glistening with angry tears. "I don't care what I ruin. I want to know what you said… what you did… why you sent them away. I demand to know."
Her usually melodious voice was harsh with pain and she made no attempt to speak quietly. Gareth, with a sense of desperation, took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Hush. For Christ's sake, be quiet a minute! Hen… the duke is in the next-door chamber. The entire household is up and about and you'll have them around our ears like a swarm of hornets in a minute."
"I don't care," Miranda said, trying to twitch away from his hands. "I don't care, damn you!" A tear finally broke loose and rolled down her cheek. He had betrayed her. She loved him and he had stabbed her in the back and now his only concern was that in her un-happiness she'd ruin his plans.
Angrily, she grabbed the towel from his hand and swiped at the tears that were now falling as if a dam had broken. The towel was damp and fragrant with the soap he'd been using to shave and for some reason this made her cry all the harder.
Gareth was stunned by her tears. Anger he could have dealt with, but this bitter distress was so unlike Miranda, so painful to watch that he forgot all the urgency of the moment. Gathering her into his arms, he sat on the bed with her, rocking her as if she were a hurt child.
"Hush, sweeting. Don't weep so. Please, don't weep so." He took the towel from her and mopped at her drenched face, brushing her hair back from her forehead, with his palm.
"They're my family," Miranda gasped, pushing against his bare chest, struggling to sit up. "What did you say to them to make them leave me?"
"They knew it was for the best. They did it for you." He heard the note of desperation now in his voice and knew immediately that it would achieve nothing. He had to take back the situation, had to prove to Miranda that he was in control, that he was in the right. He drew her back against him and when she twisted in his hold, trying to free herself, he tightened his grip, enclosing her in a fierce embrace that was as much a vise as a hug. "Stop struggling and listen to me. How can I explain anything when you won’t be still?"
Miranda ceased a struggle that for all her sinuous strength was clearly futile. She found she was breathless, that her chest ached, that her throat was scratchy and her eyes stung. But she no longer felt like weeping. She remained very still, but her body was taut as a bowstring in his arms.
Gareth ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth, moving his open hand upward to caress the curve of her cheek against his chest. She didn't move or respond in any way. Her eyes remained open, but they were not looking at him.
"All I said to your friends was that I didn't believe you could substitute for Maude with proper conviction while they remained in London and you were likely to run off and join them whenever the mood took you." He spoke firmly. "I explained that it was difficult for you to have divided loyalties, and while you felt that you could help them, then you would want to be doing that and would find it hard to concentrate on playing the very different part you play here."
Miranda listened to the quiet, level tones, feeling his breath rustling across the top of her head. His hand continued to caress her mouth and cheek. The bare skin of his chest pressed warm through the thin material of her dress.
"Mama Gertrude and Bertrand both agreed that it would be easier for you if they left town."
"They decided that for themselves?" She spoke and looked up at him for the first time.
Gareth nodded and moved his caressing thumb to her eyelids, stroking delicately. "After I'd pointed the situation out to them."
"But why didn't they say goodbye? Where are they going? Where will I find them again?"
"Everything will be all right," he whispered, tilting her face further. His mouth hovered over hers, and when her lips parted on another question, he closed them with his own.
His hand moved down her throat and he raised his mouth from hers just long enough to murmur," Trust me, little one. That's all you have to do."
Miranda's eyes closed involuntarily as she tried to fight her body's insidious yielding to the practiced caresses. Her mind told her that his explanation was logical, but the less rational part of her brain screamed that something still wasn't right. She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in him, wanted to surrender to the deft fingers unlacing her bodice, the hard assertion of his mouth on hers. But deep inside her the darkness of hurt still stirred.
She tried to push away, to turn her jaw against the fingers that held her face to his, but his free hand now globed one bared breast and its crown rose hard, totally independent of wish or will, against his palm. Prickles of arousal jumped across her skin and her belly jolted with the now-familiar current of lust. But still she struggled to resist, holding her mouth closed against him as if somehow it would protect her from this slow, sensuous assault on her hurt and her anger and her mistrust. But he explored the curve of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, not forcing entrance, but simply tasting the sweetness of her lips, even while his fingers on her jaw held her immobile.
Throughout the long, lonely reaches of the night she had ached for just this and now slowly her body was betraying her, refusing to acknowledge anything but its own hungry need. Her mind's protests grew ever fainter until they were little more than a vague and incoherent echo.
As he sensed this, the gentleness of his kiss changed, became a searing, insistent invasion that forced her lips apart. Her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel his heart beating hard almost in rhythm with her own. He lifted her, turned her sideways on his lap, and now she could feel the hard shaft of flesh pressing against her hip. With one last effort, she tried to push away again, but his hand had slid up beneath her skirt and now gripped her bottom tightly, clamping her against him as his tongue continued to plunder her mouth.
And Miranda was aware of a glorious sweetness in this captivity. The deep, instinctive knowledge that the very force that was battering against her defenses would bring her peace and the dark hurt would die in the light.
Gareth felt her surrender, her overpowering need for his strength and his loving. Her skin was hot to his touch, almost feverish, and her eyes were huge, luminous with desire, as they rested on his face. He released his hold on her jaw but his other hand remained firm and warm on her bottom. He pushed the unlaced gown from her shoulders, moving his mouth to the hollow of her throat, pressing his lips against the beating pulse before they burned a tantalizing path to her breasts. His tongue painted the soft curves, teased the small, hard nipples, and a soft moan escaped her.
He let her fall backward on his lap, the orange gown twisted beneath her, her body open and still in offering. He drew the gown away from her, tossing it to the floor, then spanned the slender indentation of her waist with his hands.
"Do you trust me, little one?"
For answer, she reached up to touch his face, cupping his cheek as he had done hers, tracing the taut angle of his jaw, the strong column of his neck. The urgency of his own passion was clear in the dark pools of his eyes, in the tendons that stood out in his neck, and yet she knew he was in complete control… in control of both of them. And Miranda knew she could yield her own defenses and he would not take advantage of her surrender. She could trust him to bring her joy and peace. In this, she could trust him.
He began to move over her body with delicate, sweeping caresses, whispering softly his delight in the sensuous glories he unfolded. He drew from her the murmured responses he required, obliging her to reveal for him the places and caresses that gave her greatest pleasure. She was adrift in enchantment, no longer alone with her hurt and her confusion, and she embraced the glorious obliteration of her body, her soul, her mind, with a cry of joy.
She was still lost on the shores of delight when Gareth lifted her and laid her on the bed. He stripped off his britches with rough haste and came down on the bed. He knelt between her widespread thighs, drawing her legs onto his shoulders, slipping his hands beneath her bottom to lift her to meet the slow, sure thrust of his entry. She was penetrated to her very core, filled with a sweet anguish that she could barely contain yet couldn't bear to lose.
This time they shared the wild, escalating spiral of glory, the tornado that caught them and swept them into the void, and when it was over Miranda lay awash in languor, limbs sprawled around his body just as they had fallen, aware of nothing but the ephemeral bliss of that joining. Gareth's head was on her shoulder, his body heavy on hers, pressing her into the feather mattress.
Sun fell in a dust-laden arc across Gareth's back and he came to his senses with a groan. "Christ and his saints!" he muttered, rolling away from her. His hand rested on her damp belly as he looked down at her, shaking his head with a rueful little smile. "You're keeping me from my guests, wicked one." He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, one hand massaging the back of his neck. "How are we going to get you out of here without being seen?" He stood up and began to dress swiftly.
Miranda sat up. The magic was over, shattered by his words. And with it went her peace. After that wondrous loving, all Gareth could think about was how to ensure that she wasn't seen leaving his chamber. He had healed her… «he had believed he could heal her hurt… but he hadn't. Nothing had really changed. Nothing mattered to him but his ambition. And why had she ever thought it could be otherwise?
She remembered so clearly the moment on the barge when he'd confessed to the driving power of his ambition. His mouth had taken the cynical, bitter curve that she always shrank from. She was a fool not to have taken heed then. He had made no promises, he had freely admitted that he wanted to use her. And she had surrendered her soul in exchange for a few moments of physical pleasure.
She had only herself to blame for the hurt. "Don't worry, no one will see me leave." She picked up her orange dress, hauling it over her head, and went to the window.
"Hey! Where are you going?" He stepped quickly toward her, reaching for her.
"Out… this a-way." She gestured to the window.
"Don't be ridiculous, sweeting." He laughed at her, gently tipped her chin to kiss her, but his eyes were distracted. "Leave by the door. I'll check that the coast is clear."
"This is safer," she said stubbornly.
Gareth stared in half-laughing disbelief as Miranda flung her leg over the sill. Chip, with an eager jabber, leaped onto the sill beside her.
"Miranda, get back in here!" But she had gone, swinging herself over the sill. Gareth lunged for the window, knowing he was too late. Chip was already clambering sideways along the wall in the ivy, heading for Miranda's bedchamber window. Miranda, clinging to the wall like a fly, edged her way along until she could hook her fingers over her own windowsill. The bright orange splash against the lush green ivy disappeared.
Gareth drew his head back into the chamber. He finished dressing, reflecting that he would never have expected such an extreme reaction from Miranda to the troupe's departure. She was such a rational, pragmatic soul. So ready to flow with the tide, to laugh at inconveniences; so quick to search out the benefit to be found in apparent setbacks. He had expected her to be a little hurt when she found her friends had gone, just as she'd been in Dover. But he'd assumed she would decide that they had good and sufficient reason. Of course, he hadn't expected her to discover that he'd had a hand in it. Stupid of him not to expect the cobbler to let something slip.
