The Emerald Swan Read online

  "Let me help." Mi­ran­da threw off the bed­co­vers, slid to her fe­et, and bu­sily set abo­ut po­si­ti­oning the pil­low, fluf­fing up the bol­s­ter, and stra­ig­h­te­ning the she­et.

  Ga­reth step­ped away from the bed, awa­re that his he­art was thud­ding. She was per­fectly for­med. A per­fect mi­ni­atu­re of a wo­man with da­inty bre­asts, a tiny wa­ist, and the me­rest hint of a cur­ve to her hips. She car­ri­ed not an oun­ce of spa­re flesh, but the mus­c­les mo­ved smo­othly be­ne­ath the ta­ut skin, re­min­ding him of so­me su­perbly and pur­po­se­ful­ly con­s­t­ruc­ted mac­hi­ne. She tur­ned her nar­row fe­et out li­ke a dan­cer, and her belly was so flat it se­emed to cle­ave to her bac­k­bo­ne.

  If as­ked for his ide­al of wo­man­ho­od Ga­reth wo­uld ha­ve pro­du­ced a des­c­rip­ti­on of Char­lot­te: tall, de­ep-bo­so­med, well-hip­ped. A lush, sen­su­al cre­atu­re with rip­pling gol­den ha­ir and a full red mo­uth and eyes that drew a man down and down in­to the se­duc­ti­ve ma­el­s­t­rom of her pas­si­on. A wo­man who knew her po­wer and her be­a­uty and knew exactly how to use them.

  But Mi­ran­da's sub­li­me in­dif­fe­ren­ce to her na­ked­ness, her blit­he ig­no­ran­ce of the ef­fect it was ha­ving upon him, was mo­te al­lu­ring than all of Char­lot­te's kno­wing wi­les.

  One too many rum pun­c­hes, he told him­self, tur­ning away from the bed. His vo­ice had a slight catch to it as he sa­id, "That'll do fi­ne. Get back un­der the co­vers be­fo­re you catch cold."

  Mi­ran­da obe­yed with alac­rity. It was true that the night air co­ming thro­ugh the un­s­hut­te­red win­dow was qu­ite chilly on her bed-war­med flesh. She drew the co­vers up to her chin and as­ked com­pa­ni­onably, "Did you ha­ve a ple­asant eve­ning, mi­lord?"

  Ga­reth's mur­mu­red res­pon­se didn't en­co­ura­ge fur­t­her fri­endly dis­cus­si­on.

  The mo­on was for the mo­ment ob­s­cu­red by clo­ud and Ga­reth has­tily blew out the can­d­le, plun­ging the cham­ber in­to dar­k­ness. Ta­king ad­van­ta­ge of the glo­om in which his body wo­uld be vi­sib­le as only a pa­le sha­pe, he threw off his clot­hes, le­aving them on the flo­or whe­re they fell, and clim­bed in­to bed. The mat­tress sank un­der his we­ight and Mi­ran­da's slight body rol­led aga­inst the se­pa­ra­ting pil­low. Ga­reth co­uld fe­el the warmth of her body be­ne­ath the co­vers, al­t­ho­ugh they we­ren't to­uc­hing, and he co­uld smell her skin and ha­ir, a fa­intly earthy yet cu­ri­o­usly in­no­cent scent in the air aro­und him.

  Mi­ran­da rol­led on­to her si­de, tuc­ked up aga­inst the pil­low. "I gi­ve you go­od night, mi­lord."

  "Go­od night, Mi­ran­da." But it was long be­fo­re Ga­reth fi­nal­ly slip­ped in­to slum­ber.

  When he wo­ke, day­light was po­uring thro­ugh the un­s­hut­te­red win­dow and the­re was no sign of eit­her Mi­ran­da or the mon­key. He stret­c­hed, yaw­ned, flung asi­de the co­vers, and sto­od up, sur­p­ri­sed at how cle­ar­he­aded and re­mar­kably well he felt, gi­ven his rat­her short and not en­ti­rely dre­am­less night. His eye fell on Mi­ran­da's oran­ge dress lying on the win­dow se­at and his well-be­ing suf­fe­red a small dent. If she wasn't in the ro­om, and she pa­tently wasn't, then whe­re in the de­vil's na­me had she go­ne in a sta­te of un­d­ress?

  Appla­use, whis­t­les, and cat­cal­ls drif­ted thro­ugh the open win­dow from the inn's co­ur­t­yard be­ne­ath. He went to the win­dow, lo­oked out, lo­oked si­de­ways, then sta­red, his he­art in his mo­uth. Mi­ran­da was on the po­int of the ste­eply pit­c­hed, black-le­aded, red-ti­led ro­of to his right. She was ba­re­fo­ot, clad only in the le­at­her leg­gings and her che­mi­se, and she was per­for­ming an ac­ro­ba­tic ro­uti­ne for the enj­oy­ment of the inn's staff many fe­et be­low.

  She was stan­ding on her hands, or rat­her on one hand, he amen­ded sickly; the ot­her hand was wa­ving to the audi­en­ce. Chip was stan­ding on the so­le of her up­tur­ned fo­ot, ra­ising his hat in a si­mi­lar sa­lu­te.

  Ga­reth bit back a yell of fury, ter­ri­fi­ed of dis­tur­bing that pre­ca­ri­o­us ba­lan­ce. He held his bre­ath as she back-flip­ped on the ra­zor-thin ed­ge of the ro­of pitch, sen­ding Chip so­aring thro­ugh the air in a tum­b­ling so­mer­sa­ult. Mi­ra­cu­lo­usly they both lan­ded on the­ir fe­et, but his mind wo­uldn't lo­se the ima­ge of her body tum­b­ling over and over thro­ugh the air, legs and arms fla­iling as if they co­uld halt her fall, un­til she lan­ded on the cob­bles be­ne­ath, spraw­led and limp as a rag doll, a po­ol of blo­od spre­ading from be­ne­ath her he­ad and the stran­ge sharp an­g­le of her neck.

  Char­lot­te. No, that was Char­lot­te. He co­uld still he­ar her scre­am as she tum­b­led bac­k­ward from the win­dow, to land at his fe­et. He co­uld still fe­el the warmth of her skin be­ne­ath his hands as he to­uc­hed her fal­len body.

  Ga­reth sho­ok his he­ad to ba­nish the ghosts. He lo­oked down at his Bands, slim, whi­te, strong. They had con­fir­med her de­ath, clo­sed her eyes on that hi­de­o­us af­ter­no­on. Each mo­ve­ment so cold, so de­li­be­ra­te…

  He let his hands fall to his si­des. It was not Char­lot­te he had to worry abo­ut, not now, not ever aga­in. He le­aned out of the win­dow as far as he co­uld.

  "Mi­ran­da." He kept his vo­ice low and even as if he we­re ha­iling her calmly on the stre­et.

  "I gi­ve you go­od mor­row, mi­lord," she cal­led mer­rily, tur­ning her body in­to a ta­ut tri­an­g­le, one hand clas­ping one an­k­le, the ot­her hand and an­k­le ra­ised way abo­ve her he­ad.

  "Co­me in," he sa­id, still qu­i­etly, his he­art throb­bing thickly in his thro­at. She me­rely la­ug­hed and his fe­ar ga­ve way to a sur­ge of black ra­ge. "Co­me in this in­s­tant!"

  Mi­ran­da he­ard his to­ne but at first didn't re­cog­ni­ze it for what it was. It didn't oc­cur to her that he co­uld be frig­h­te­ned for her. She had be­en per­for­ming such an­tics ever sin­ce she co­uld re­mem­ber and no one in the tro­upe wo­uld ever ha­ve con­si­de­red them dan­ge­ro­us. The oc­ca­si­onal spra­in was a ro­uti­ne ha­zard, but that she might be en­dan­ge­ring her li­fe didn't oc­cur to her. So she ig­no­red the earl's in­s­t­ruc­ti­on and con­ti­nu­ed her per­for­man­ce, which was as much for her own amu­se­ment as it was for the audi­en­ce in the co­urt be­low.

  Ga­reth wit­h­d­rew from the win­dow when he fi­nal­ly re­ali­zed that she wasn't go­ing to ta­ke any no­ti­ce of him and he co­uld be­ar to watch no lon­ger. Fu­ri­o­usly, he snat­c­hed cle­an li­nen from his por­t­man­te­au and be­gan to dress swiftly, only the ro­ars of ap­pro­val from the crowd re­as­su­ring him that Mi­ran­da was con­ti­nu­ing to per­form wit­ho­ut mis­hap. And pa­ra­do­xi­cal­ly with each re­as­su­ring burst of ap­pla­use, his an­ger grew.

  He was but­to­ning his shir­t­s­le­eves when the ap­pla­use ce­ased and Mi­ran­da jum­ped exu­be­rantly thro­ugh the win­dow, lan­ding on the flo­or on the far si­de of the win­dow se­at with a ne­at scis­sor kick of her le­at­her-clad legs.

  "J­ust what in Lu­ci­fer's na­me we­re you do­ing?" His vo­ice was omi­no­usly qu­i­et.

  "Prac­ti­cing," she in­for­med him che­er­ful­ly. "I ha­ve to prac­ti­ce every day and the ro­of was a per­fect pla­ce."

  She drop­ped her palms flat on the flo­or as she con­ti­nu­ed her chat­ter, stret­c­hing out her calf mus­c­les.

  "Chip ne­eded to go out… he's very well ho­use-bro­ken, you sho­uld know… and sin­ce I wasn't su­re what kind of re­cep­ti­on we'd re­ce­ive if we went dow­n­s­ta­irs, the ro­of se­emed the only al­ter­na­ti­ve. And whi­le we we­re out the­re, it se­emed sen­sib­le to kill two birds with one sto­ne and get so­me prac­ti­ce in."

  Ga­reth clo­sed his eyes bri�
�efly. Mi­ran­da stra­ig­h­te­ned and lo­oked at his set fa­ce, the ta­ut li­ne of his mo­uth. "You're ve­xed," she sa­id in as­to­nis­h­ment.

  The as­to­nis­h­ment was the last straw. "Of co­ur­se I am! What do you ex­pect when I wa­ke up to dis­co­ver you bre­aking yo­ur neck out of she­er rec­k­less ex­hi­bi­ti­onism? Or we­re you in­ten­ding to send that mon­key ro­und with the hat?"

  Mi­ran­da lo­oked as con­fu­sed as she felt. "No… I ex­p­la­ined… I was just prac­ti­cing. I ha­ve to prac­ti­ce every day. If pe­op­le want to watch then I don't mind."

  He mas­sa­ged the back of his neck, re­gar­ding her in frus­t­ra­ti­on. "Didn't it oc­cur to you that you co­uld ha­ve bro­ken yo­ur neck?"

  Mi­ran­da lo­oked even mo­re be­wil­de­red. "You we­re af­ra­id I might slip… and fall?"

  "God­damn it! Of co­ur­se I was!" he ex­c­la­imed.

  "But it's not pos­sib­le for me to ma­ke such a mis­ta­ke."

  Ga­reth sta­red at her, in­c­re­du­lo­us. She be­li­eved it. The con­vic­ti­on sho­ne un­s­ha­kab­le in her eyes, was car­ri­ed in the firm li­ne of her jaw. She be­li­eved that out the­re on that ro­of she had be­en ut­terly sa­fe. And then he un­der­s­to­od that the slig­h­test he­si­ta­ti­on, the fa­in­test flic­ker of a do­ubt in her own abi­lity, wo­uld be fa­tal. Of co­ur­se she had to be­li­eve in her in­vul­ne­ra­bi­lity, to per­form as she did.

  He ex­ha­led slowly. In a dif­fe­rent to­ne, he sa­id, "Wo­uld you pass me my bo­ots? And you'd bet­ter fi­nish get­ting dres­sed."

  Mi­ran­da pas­sed him his le­at­her bo­ots, her fin­gers un­con­s­ci­o­usly ca­res­sing the but­ter-soft cor­do­van le­at­her. She had ne­ver to­uc­hed an­y­t­hing qu­ite so lu­xu­ri­o­us. She han­ded the bo­ots to him and of­fe­red a ten­ta­ti­ve smi­le, awa­re of an odd fe­eling. He had be­en af­ra­id for her.

  Mi­ran­da didn't think an­yo­ne had ever be­en af­ra­id for her be­fo­re and she didn't know qu­ite what to ma­ke of it, or of the stran­ge warmth it bro­ught her.

  Her smi­le was ut­terly ir­re­sis­tib­le, Ga­reth re­cog­ni­zed with a wry re­sig­na­ti­on. The bo­di­ce of her che­mi­se was only par­ti­al­ly la­ced and the cre­amy cur­ves of her bre­asts, the dark ro­se of the­ir crowns, pe­eked bet­we­en the thin rib­bons. The gar­ment was tuc­ked ro­ughly in­to the wa­is­t­band of her le­at­her leg­gings, pro­du­cing a roll of ma­te­ri­al aro­und her hips that he fo­und pe­cu­li­arly en­de­aring.

  Wit­ho­ut vo­li­ti­on, he pul­led the che­mi­se free of the leg­gings and smo­ot­hed it down over her hips, then ti­ed the rib­bons of her bo­di­ce mo­re se­cu­rely. "You are an un­tidy wretch," he mut­te­red. "It's not eno­ugh for you to risk bre­aking yo­ur neck for the edi­fi­ca­ti­on of a pack of stab­le lads, but you ha­ve to do it half-na­ked."

  "I beg yo­ur par­don," Mi­ran­da sa­id me­ekly, lo­oking down at his fin­gers deftly thre­ading the la­ces in­to the eye­lets on her bo­di­ce.

  She drop­ped her oran­ge dress over her he­ad. It was mo­re of a shift than a gown, with a la­ced bo­di­ce thro­ugh which the whi­te hol­land of her un­der­gar­ment as vi­sib­le, and short sle­eves that fi­nis­hed abo­ve her el­bows, re­ve­aling the sle­eves of her che­mi­se. She no­ti­ced that tho­se sle­eves we­re grubby and cast a dis­com­fi­ted lo­ok at mi­lord's pris­ti­ne li­nen.

  "If I'm to pre­tend to be this Lady Ma­ude, I'll ne­ed anot­her gown," she sug­ges­ted.

  "At le­ast one," he ag­re­ed, pul­ling on his bo­ots, tur­ning the high cuffs over be­low his kne­es. "But the­re'll be ti­me eno­ugh to see to yo­ur war­d­ro­be whi­le yo­ur ha­ir's gro­wing."

  Mi­ran­da ran her hands thro­ugh the short stra­ight bob, fluf­fing it out aro­und her fa­ce. "Long ha­ir is a nu­isan­ce when I'm tum­b­ling."

  "Yes, but you will not be tum­b­ling whi­le you're ta­king my co­usin's pla­ce in the world," he po­in­ted out.

  "I sup­po­se not." Mi­ran­da pus­hed her fe­et in­to her wo­oden pat­tens. "I don't sup­po­se yo­ur co­usin has any ac­ro­ba­tic ten­den­ci­es." She went to the do­or. "Shall I ask them to send up hot wa­ter for you?"

  "If you ple­ase." Ga­reth was still trying to ima­gi­ne Ma­ude with ac­ro­ba­tic ten­den­ci­es but the ima­ge was too ab­surd. "And per­haps you'd tell them in the kit­c­hen to send a mes­sa­ge to the li­very stab­le to ha­ve the nag sad­dled and re­ady to le­ave wit­hin the ho­ur."

  "Are we to ri­de to Lon­don?"

  "Yes." He ca­ught her do­ub­t­ful lo­ok and sa­id, "Can you not ri­de?"

  "Pac­k­hor­ses and mu­les. But Lon­don is a very long way, is it not? Too far to ri­de on a mu­le."

  "You may ri­de pil­li­on. Tell them to use a pil­li­on sad­dle on the nag."

  Mi­ran­da went che­er­ful­ly on her way, Chip le­aping ahe­ad of her down the nar­row sta­ir­ca­se. At the fo­ot, ho­we­ver, he jum­ped in­to her arms when she whis­t­led for him. She was gre­eted in the kit­c­hen with gre­at go­od hu­mor af­ter her ro­of­top per­for­man­ce, and ha­ving re­la­yed mi­lord's in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons she went off in the di­rec­ti­on of the privy.

  She had the no­iso­me out­ho­use to her­self, which augu­red well for the day. It wasn't that she obj­ec­ted very strongly to sit­ting hip to hip with her fel­lows, but pri­vacy was a de­fi­ni­te ple­asu­re. An al­most un­he­ard-of ple­asu­re in the ro­ugh-and-tum­b­le of li­fe on the ro­ad.

  Her fa­mily wo­uld be ne­aring the co­ast of Fran­ce by now, if the wind and we­at­her had be­en set fa­ir for the cros­sing. Wo­uld they be won­de­ring abo­ut her, abo­ut what she was do­ing, how she was fa­ring? Of co­ur­se they wo­uld. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de, Ber­t­rand, and Lu­ke in par­ti­cu­lar. And Rob­bie wo­uld be mi­se­rab­le wit­ho­ut her. Lu­ke wo­uld ma­ke su­re he had fo­od when they all ate, but he wo­uldn't be wat­c­hing for when the boy grew fa­ti­gu­ed as he stum­b­led along in the tro­upe's wa­ke. Rob­bie wo­uld ne­ver ad­mit his ti­red­ness and ask to ri­de on the hand-pul­led cart that car­ri­ed most of the­ir pos­ses­si­ons; it was al­ways Mi­ran­da who lif­ted him up, ig­no­ring his pro­tests.

  Chip had be­en sit­ting on the ro­of of the shed wa­iting for her and jum­ped down on­to her sho­ul­der as she emer­ged from the privy. Her cus­to­mary bub­bling op­ti­mism was so­mew­hat sub­du­ed, and she was fe­eling rat­her lo­nely and for­lorn as she re­tur­ned to the kit­c­hen yard. How co­uld she be cer­ta­in she co­uld do what Lord Har­co­urt wan­ted? What kind of li­fe did he le­ad in Lon­don? What kind of pe­op­le wo­uld she me­et? Li­ke no­ne she had known hit­her­to, of that much she was cer­ta­in. And the fa­mi­li­ar fa­ces and vo­ices, the fa­mi­li­ar way of li­fe, hard tho­ugh it was, sud­denly se­emed very pre­ci­o­us, with a va­lue she had not pro­perly ap­pre­ci­ated.

  She pa­used at the ra­in­wa­ter butt and splas­hed wa­ter on her fa­ce, smo­ot­hing down her ha­ir with wet fin­gers. She tri­ed to spon­ge the grubby marks from her sle­eve but wit­ho­ut much ef­fect. Mi­lord Har­co­urt wo­uld be freshly sha­ven, his li­nen fresh and cle­an, at the bre­ak­fast tab­le, whi­le she lo­oked as dis­re­pu­tab­le as any stre­et ur­c­hin.

  She was scrub­bing with re­ne­wed vi­gor when Ga­reth step­ped in­to the kit­c­hen yard. He wat­c­hed her as she com­bed thro­ugh her ha­ir with her fin­gers, wi­ped her wet fa­ce on her skirt, and dis­con­so­la­tely exa­mi­ned her sle­eves.

  She lo­oked up from her ab­lu­ti­ons and saw him in the kit­c­hen do­or­way. "I beg yo­ur par­don, mi­lord, ha­ve I kept you wa­iting?" She hur­ri­ed over to him, con­fi­ding ru­eful­ly, "I was trying to tidy myself, but I don't se­em to ha­ve had much suc­cess."

  "No," he ag­re­ed, scru­ti­ni­zing her with the glin­ting smi�
�le that al­ways re­as­su­red her. "But then you we­re hardly star­ting from a pro­mi­sing po­int. Co­me, let us bre­ak our fast." He put a hand on her sho­ul­der, ur­ging her ahe­ad of him thro­ugh the kit­c­hen and in­to the tap­ro­om, de­ser­ted sa­ve for a ser­ving wench la­ying dis­hes on the long scrub­bed cen­t­ral tab­le.

  Mi­ran­da lic­ked her lips at the spre­ad of cod­dled eggs, sir­lo­in, man­c­het bre­ad, and a pig's he­ad. She slid on­to the long bench, her mo­od of lo­ne­li­ness and ap­pre­hen­si­on lif­ting. "I'm ra­ve­no­us."

  "I'm not sur­p­ri­sed af­ter yo­ur dawn exer­ci­se." Ga­reth to­ok up the car­ving kni­fe. "Brawn? Or sir­lo­in?"

  "Both, if it wo­uldn't be gre­edy." She pus­hed her bre­ad tren­c­her to­ward him so he co­uld lay the sli­ces on it, then dip­ped her spo­on in­to the dish of eggs.

  The ser­ving wench put tan­kards of ale be­si­de them, cur­t­si­ed, and hur­ri­ed to the in­g­le­no­ok to ra­ke thro­ugh the pre­vi­o­us night's em­bers.

  Mi­ran­da ate in ap­pre­ci­ati­ve si­len­ce for a few mi­nu­tes then sa­id, "Whe­re's Chip? He's di­sap­pe­ared."

  "God's in His he­aven af­ter all," Ga­reth mur­mu­red. "I was won­de­ring why my bre­ak­fast was so pe­ace­ful."

  Mi­ran­da swung her legs over the bench and went to the win­dow that lo­oked out on­to the stre­et. A lad with a tray of pi­es pas­sed by, sho­uting his wa­res, fol­lo­wed by a man pus­hing a han­d­cart la­den with oni­ons and cab­ba­ges. An el­derly wo­man was swe­eping rub­bish out of her ho­use and in­to the ken­nel in the mid­dle of the la­ne. She ret­re­ated has­tily at the aler­ting cry of "Gar­d­y­loo," just ma­na­ging to es­ca­pe the con­tents of a cham­ber pot hur­led from a win­dow abo­ve.

  A per­fectly or­di­nary ear­ly-mor­ning stre­et sce­ne, but the­re was no sign of Chip.