The Emerald Swan Page 9

  "Aye, and af­ter­ward we're go­in' on the town," Bri­an dec­la­red with an ex­pan­si­ve ges­tu­re. "I've be­en chas­te as a monk for the last we­ek and I've he­ard tell the­re's a de­cent ho­use hard by the cat­hed­ral."

  Ga­reth tho­ught ra­pidly. Mi­ran­da had di­sap­pe­ared to the out­ho­use whi­le he'd be­en ne­go­ti­ating the hor­se ex­c­han­ge. If his two old fri­ends ca­me fa­ce to fa­ce with her it wo­uld be use­less to ho­pe that they wo­uldn't im­me­di­ately no­ti­ce the star­t­ling re­sem­b­lan­ce to Ma­ude.

  "I'll jo­in you shortly. I've yet to com­p­le­te my bu­si­ness with the li­very stab­le," he de­mur­red.

  "Oh, we'll send for the man to wa­it upon us in the inn. No ne­ed for you to hang aro­und at his beck and call." Bri­an flung an arm aro­und Ga­reth's ot­her sho­ul­der with an exu­be­rant bel­low of go­od-fel­low­s­hip. "Co­me, my thro­at's as dry as an old ma­id's tits."

  At that mo­ment Mi­ran­da ap­pe­ared from the cor­ner of the inn, Chip, dres­sed on­ce mo­re in his now-dry jac­ket and cap, sit­ting on her sho­ul­der.

  She saw him, half lif­ted a hand in gre­eting, then ab­ruptly tur­ned on her he­el and sa­un­te­red back the way she had co­me, her oran­ge dress flut­te­ring aro­und her cal­ves.

  Ga­reth ex­ha­led in slow re­li­ef. His com­pa­ni­ons had the­ir backs to the cor­ner and wo­uldn't ha­ve spi­ed her. She had swift re­ac­ti­ons, this lit­tle d'Albard.

  "I'll jo­in you in the par­lor di­rectly," he sa­id. "I've ne­ed of hot wa­ter and cle­an li­nen af­ter the day's ri­de."

  The Ros­si­ter brot­hers ag­re­ed ami­ably to me­et him in half an ho­ur in the pri­va­te par­lor and he hur­ri­ed in­to the inn and up­s­ta­irs to the lar­ge front cham­ber he had ear­li­er bes­po­ken for him­self and Mi­ran­da.

  Mi­ran­da had go­ne im­me­di­ately to the cham­ber, whe­re she hit­c­hed her­self up on the high bed and sat swin­ging her legs in the glo­om as dusk's sha­dows len­g­t­he­ned. She had re­ac­ted wit­ho­ut a mo­ment's tho­ught when she'd se­en the earl with the two men and she had no do­ubt that she had do­ne the right thing. But she was fe­eling a lit­tle for­lorn un­til she he­ard the earl's fo­ot­s­teps on the lan­ding out­si­de. The do­or was not fully clo­sed and he step­ped in­to the do­or­way, pe­ering in­to the dim­ness.

  "Why are you sit­ting in the dark, Mi­ran­da?"

  "I don't know," she sa­id frankly. "I felt as if I ought to stay hid­den so­me­how, and it se­emed mo­re ap­prop­ri­ate to sit in dar­k­ness." She slid off the bed and struck flint on tin­der, lig­h­ting the bran­c­hed can­d­les­tick on the low tab­le be­si­de the bed. The gol­den light glo­wed thro­ugh the ve­il of her ha­ir as it fell for­ward from her bent he­ad, sen­ding dark red fla­res sho­oting thro­ugh the rich brown locks.

  So li­ke her mot­her's, Ga­reth tho­ught. He co­uld re­mem­ber wat­c­hing his co­usin Ele­na brush her ha­ir at her dres­ser and the can­d­le had set alight exactly the sa­me fi­res in the thick, dark ma­ne.

  "What ma­de you di­sap­pe­ar li­ke that?" he in­qu­ired cu­ri­o­usly, le­aning aga­inst the dres­ser, res­ting his hands on the smo­oth cherry wo­od on eit­her si­de of his hips.

  "I didn't stop to think," she sa­id. "It just se­emed ob­vi­o­us that if we we­re to prac­ti­ce a de­cep­ti­on in Lon­don then I pro­bably sho­uldn't show myself to pe­op­le you know be­fo­re then."

  "Not ever­yo­ne wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught so shrewdly… or so swiftly," he sa­id, smi­ling. "I con­g­ra­tu­la­te you."

  Mi­ran­da flus­hed with ple­asu­re at the com­p­li­ment. "Do tho­se men know yo­ur co­usin?"

  "They've se­en her se­ve­ral ti­mes… mo­re of­ten than most pe­op­le." He un­buc­k­led his sword belt, la­ying it over a sto­ol, then threw off his clo­ak on his way to the was­h­s­tand whe­re he po­ured wa­ter from the jug in­to the ewer. "They wo­uld cer­ta­inly no­ti­ce yo­ur re­sem­b­lan­ce to her."

  "Even with my short ha­ir and when I'm dres­sed li­ke this?"

  He lo­oked over at her, sa­ying con­si­de­ringly, "It re­qu­ires a le­ap of fa­ith, I grant you."

  Mi­ran­da knew that to­ne by now and she grin­ned. "I sup­po­se I'd bet­ter stay up he­re for the eve­ning."

  "I think it wo­uld be best if you di­ned up he­re. You won't be too lo­nely, will you?"

  Mi­ran­da sho­ok her he­ad, al­t­ho­ugh she knew that she wo­uld. She was not ac­cus­to­med to be­ing alo­ne.

  Ga­reth he­si­ta­ted, un­con­vin­ced by the he­ad­s­ha­ke, but he co­uld see no al­ter­na­ti­ve. As he be­gan to re­mo­ve his do­ub­let, his fin­gers slid in­si­de the in­ner poc­ket as they did wit­ho­ut con­s­ci­o­us tho­ught co­un­t­less ti­mes a day. The wa­xed par­c­h­ment was the­re and the lit­tle vel­vet po­uch with the bra­ce­let. He glan­ced at Mi­ran­da, who had wan­de­red to the win­dow and was lo­oking out in­to the gat­he­ring dusk.

  Her slim, stra­ight back, the long, de­li­ca­te stem of her swan­li­ke neck, re­min­ded him so much of her mot­her. Ele­na had had just such gra­ce of mo­ve­ment, just such na­tu­ral­ly erect pos­tu­re. And the bra­ce­let that had so gra­ced her mot­her's slen­der wrist wo­uld gra­ce the da­ug­h­ter's. For him it to­ok no le­ap of fa­ith to ima­gi­ne the grubby, tat­te­red ur­c­hin in co­ur­ti­er's dress. She was Ele­na's da­ug­h­ter.

  He tur­ned back to the was­h­s­tand, rol­ling up the sle­eves of his whi­te shirt.

  Mi­ran­da tur­ned away from the win­dow. She wat­c­hed him as he per­for­med the sim­p­le ges­tu­re. His fin­gers we­re so long and ele­gant, me­ti­cu­lo­usly fol­ding over the cuffs of the shirt be­fo­re pus­hing the sle­eves up to his el­bows, ba­ring the brown mus­cu­lar fo­re­arms and strong wrists. The can­d­le­light ca­ught the fi­ne dus­ting of dark ha­ir on his fo­re­arms. A pul­se in her thro­at be­gan to be­at fast and she felt a stran­ge qu­ic­ke­ning low in her belly, a stran­ge ful­lness in her lo­ins. It was not a sen­sa­ti­on she had ever be­fo­re ex­pe­ri­en­ced.

  "Co­uld you lo­ok in my por­t­man­te­au for a cle­an shirt? This one re­eks of swe­at and hor­sef­lesh af­ter that mad ri­de this mor­ning."

  Ga­reth bent to splash wa­ter on his fa­ce and Mi­ran­da fo­und her­self ga­zing at the cur­ve of his back, the ta­ut swell of his but­tocks in the short trunk ho­se, the long, hard thighs out­li­ned un­der clo­se-fit­ting black stoc­kings. She swal­lo­wed as the stran­ge sen­sa­ti­on in her lo­wer body in­ten­si­fi­ed and she felt her che­eks warm.

  Has­tily, she tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to the por­t­man­te­au, fin­ding a cle­an shirt of soft cre­am li­nen.

  Ga­reth to­ok it from her with a word of thanks, tos­sed it over the bed­ra­il, and pul­led the shirt he was we­aring over his he­ad. His chest was bro­ad and smo­oth, pa­ler than the strong brown co­lumn of his neck. The mus­c­les rip­pled in his up­per arms, al­most as po­wer­ful as Ra­o­ul's, the stron­g­man in the tro­upe.

  Mi­ran­da's eyes went to the sword and the he­avy stud­ded belt. She re­mem­be­red the strength with which he'd wi­el­ded both that mor­ning at the Adam and Eve. May­be Mi­lord Har­co­urt was a co­ur­ti­er, but he was al­so a po­wer­ful swor­d­s­man, it se­emed.

  Ga­reth emer­ged from the la­ven­der-smel­ling folds of his cle­an shirt and tuc­ked it in­to the wa­ist of his trunk ho­se. Then he le­aned aga­inst the bed­post and exa­mi­ned Mi­ran­da, sug­ges­ting with a qu­iz­zi­cal­ly ra­ised eyeb­row, "May­be you'd li­ke to use the wa­ter, too."

  "I wish I had cle­an clot­hes," she sa­id sor­row­ful­ly. "Or just a cle­an che­mi­se. All my pos­ses­si­ons are pro­bably back in Fran­ce by now."

  "We'll re­medy the si­tu­ati­on as so­on as we re­ach Lon­don," he pro­mi­sed, lif
­ting her chin on a fo­re­fin­ger. She lo­oked so be­reft. "Don't lo­ok so mo­ur­n­ful, fi­refly. I'll or­der you a very spe­ci­al din­ner to be sent up." Now whe­re had that oddly af­fec­ti­ona­te nic­k­na­me co­me from? Then he he­ard Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de's ro­bust to­nes as she'd stor­med past him mut­te­ring: That girl… li­ke a fi­refly she is with her dar­ting abo­ut.

  He con­ti­nu­ed has­tily, "I ex­pect I'll be la­te re­tur­ning, but I've en­su­red that the­re's a truc­k­le bed for you." He re­le­ased her chin with a smi­le, pic­ked up his sle­eve­less do­ub­let aga­in, and left the cham­ber, pul­ling the gar­ment on as he went.

  Mi­ran­da sat down aga­in on the bed. Chip jum­ped in­to her arms and gently to­uc­hed her fa­ce with one hand. She rub­bed his neck, won­de­ring why she was fe­eling so for­lorn. She and mi­lord we­re so easy, so com­pa­ni­onab­le to­get­her that it was hard to be­li­eve they'd only known each ot­her for two days.

  Ga­reth stret­c­hed his long legs be­ne­ath the oak re­fec­tory tab­le and re­ac­hed for his tan­kard of me­ad. Aro­und him the buzz of vo­ices eb­bed and flo­wed, the light, eager to­nes of the wo­men in­ter­s­per­sed with the ro­ug­her, mo­re gra­vel­ly to­nes of men who had drunk de­ep thro­ug­ho­ut the eve­ning. Ri­bald la­ug­h­ter gus­ted up­ward to the smo­ke-blac­ke­ned raf­ters.

  A thin- fa­ced ser­ving girl ap­pe­ared at his si­de with a jug of me­ad. She re­fil­led his glass, hol­ding her­self away from him as if she ex­pec­ted him at any mi­nu­te to grab, pinch, tic­k­le, or slap. But Ga­reth to his sur­p­ri­se fo­und that he had no in­te­rest in the wo­men on sa­le in the ho­use hard by the cat­hed­ral. All aro­und him, men exa­mi­ned, wo­men dis­p­la­yed, and when ne­go­ti­ati­ons we­re com­p­le­ted, the pa­ir wo­uld di­sap­pe­ar in­to one of the many cur­ta­ined nic­hes ran­ging along the si­des of the gre­at hall.

  The bawd who ow­ned the who­re­ho­use, a sharp-fe­atu­red wo­man, richly dres­sed in oran­ge da­mask, cros­sed the thron­ged hall pur­po­se­ful­ly to­ward the earl.

  "You find not­hing to tempt you, my lord?" She sat on a sto­ol be­si­de him, res­ting her che­ek on her hand, re­gar­ding him with nar­ro­wed, cal­cu­la­ting eyes and a smi­le that didn't de­ce­ive him for a mo­ment. "Yo­ur fri­ends se­em to be per­fectly sa­tis­fi­ed."

  Ga­reth nod­ded and drank from his tan­kard. "I find I'm not in the mo­od for play to­night, mis­t­ress."

  "We can sa­tisfy any tas­tes, my lord. My girls are al­ways re­ady to ob­li­ge in any way." She win­ked. "Ellie." The bawd bec­ko­ned im­pe­ri­o­usly to a yo­ung wo­man who had just emer­ged from be­hind one of the cur­ta­ins. "Ellie has so­me very par­ti­cu­lar spe­ci­ali­ti­es, my lord. Isn't that so, de­ar?" She smi­led at the girl, a smi­le ra­di­ating me­na­ce.

  Ellie im­me­di­ately le­aned over the earl, en­cir­c­ling his neck with her arms, and whis­pe­red in­to his ear. Her ha­ir brus­hed his che­ek and her skin exu­ded the scent he al­ways as­so­ci­ated with who­res-a musky per­fu­me over­la­ying the dirt and the smell of ot­her men.

  Once Char­lot­te had co­me to him smel­ling exactly li­ke this. Af­ter one of her wild nights when she'd gi­ven her­self to an­yo­ne who'd wan­ted her. As usu­al she'd be­en drunk, her eyes al­most fe­ral in the­ir pre­da­tory hun­ger. She'd rub­bed her­self aga­inst him just as the who­re was do­ing now, whis­pe­ring las­ci­vi­o­usly in his ear, in­vi­ting and yet ta­un­ting at the sa­me ti­me. Only her hus­band had ever re­fu­sed the in­vi­ta­ti­on of her lush body, her sharp lit­tle te­eth, her fe­ro­ci­o­us hun­gers. Hun­gers that no one man co­uld sa­tisfy.

  The who­re pur­red her filth in­to his ear, mo­ving si­nu­o­usly aro­und his body, rub­bing and pres­sing her­self aga­inst him. With a vi­olent oath, Ga­reth pus­hed back his sto­ol and sto­od up. The girl fell back, only just ma­na­ging to ke­ep her fe­et. The bawd ro­se, too, her nar­ro­wed eyes fil­led with an­ger.

  "Stu­pid girl," she his­sed at El­lie, who sto­od with her hand pres­sed to her mo­uth, ut­terly non­p­lus­sed by the cli­ent's re­ac­ti­on. "A lit­tle fi­nes­se, a lit­tle de­li­cacy. Isn't that what I'm al­ways tel­lin' you?"

  "It's not the girl's fa­ult." Ga­reth im­po­sed his lar­ge fra­me bet­we­en the bawd and her who­re. "He­re." He han­ded the bawd a gu­inea and swung on his he­el, ma­king for the do­or and the fres­h­ness of the night air.

  "Ga­reth… eh, Ga­reth, m'boy. Whe­re're you off to in such has­te? The night is yo­ung, and the­re's so­me cho­ice wa­res I've yet to sam­p­le." Bri­an bar­re­led ac­ross the ro­om, wit­ho­ut his do­ub­let, his shirt un­but­to­ned, his ho­se un­la­ced. He flo­uris­hed a gob­let in the air and be­amed. "Kip's fo­und him­self a ni­ce yo­ung thing, just what he li­kes."

  "I'm go­ing back to the inn," Ga­reth sa­id brus­qu­ely. "I find I've no tas­te for this to­night. Enj­oy yo­ur­self. I'll see you in Lon­don."

  "Eh, but you won't jo­ur­ney with us on the mor­row?" Bri­an lo­oked as inj­ured as it was ever pos­sib­le for such a man to be.

  "No, my fri­end. I'll be on the ro­ad at dawn. You'll not ha­ve ope­ned yo­ur eyes by then."

  Bri­an chuc­k­led. "If I've clo­sed 'em by then."

  Ga­reth me­rely ra­ised a hand in sa­lu­te and plun­ged out­si­de in­to the qu­i­et stre­et. He stro­de back to the inn un­der the bul­king sha­dow of the cat­hed­ral. His he­ad cle­ared in the fresh air and he be­gan to fe­el cle­an aga­in as the so­iled me­mo­ri­es ret­re­ated.

  Sin­ce Char­lot­te's de­ath he had sa­tis­fi­ed his se­xu­al ne­ed with sim­p­le, cle­an, une­mo­ti­onal en­co­un­ters with wil­ling wo­men who wan­ted not­hing mo­re them­sel­ves- un­sa­tis­fi­ed wi­ves, lo­nely wi­dows, the oc­ca­si­onal who­re. He was re­sig­ned to a li­fe­ti­me of such sa­tis­fac­ti­on. Mary wo­uld be du­ti­ful, of co­ur­se, but the­re was no pas­si­on the­re. Af­ter Char­lot­te, he ne­eded as wi­fe a wo­man who wo­uld lie still, be glad when it was over, and gra­te­ful for each preg­nancy that fre­ed her from her ma­ri­tal duty.

  The ref­lec­ti­on bro­ught a cyni­cal twist to his mo­uth as he en­te­red the inn be­ne­ath the lan­tern that threw his pro­fi­le in­to harsh re­li­ef. He was una­wa­re of the fi­gu­re in the bed­c­ham­ber abo­ve the do­or, kne­eling on the win­dow se­at lo­oking down at the stre­et.

  Mi­ran­da jum­ped off the win­dow se­at and di­ved un­der the co­vers on the truc­k­le bed. She lay lo­oking up in­to the dar­k­ness, lis­te­ning for his fo­ot­fall in the cor­ri­dor out­si­de. How stran­ge he had lo­oked. How cold, his mo­uth twis­ted out of sha­pe so that he didn't lo­ok li­ke the man she knew.

  But then of co­ur­se she didn't know him. How co­uld she? Af­ter a me­re two days in his com­pany? He ca­me from a world she knew not­hing abo­ut, and she had sat up wa­iting for him be­ca­use she was not used to sle­eping alo­ne and the bed­c­ham­ber had se­emed vast and glo­omy and so empty. Even Chip's fa­mi­li­ar com­pany had not be­en qu­ite eno­ugh. But now, as she he­ard the latch lift, her he­art lur­c­hed as if the man who en­te­red the cham­ber was a stran­ger.

  She clo­sed her eyes tightly, con­cen­t­ra­ted on bre­at­hing de­eply, felt him ap­pro­ach the truc­k­le bed, felt his scru­tiny as he lo­oked at her in the star­light from the un­s­hut­te­red win­dow. Only Chip sta­red back with his bright eyes as he cur­led in the cro­ok of Mi­ran­da's neck.

  Ga­reth bent and de­li­ca­tely adj­us­ted the co­ver, dra­wing it up to her neck so the dra­ught from the open win­dow wo­uldn't chill her. He scrat­c­hed the mon­key's neck with a fin­ger­na­il be­ca­use so­me­how it se­emed im­pos­sib­le to ig­no­re the ani­mal's pre­sen­ce, and then threw off his clot­hes, aiming for the chest at the fo­ot of his bed.

&nbs
p; He clim­bed in­to bed. A gre­at wash of we­ari­ness swam­ped him, the me­lan­c­holy fa­ti­gue that had dog­ged him sin­ce the end of his idyll with Char­lot­te, tho­se few short months of hap­pi­ness. He knew with fa­mi­li­ar dre­ad that in his sle­ep the dre­ams wo­uld re­turn.

  Mi­ran­da lis­te­ned as the earl's bre­at­hing dip­ped in­to the even rhythms of sle­ep. Only then did she al­low her­self to sle­ep. And she awo­ke at so­me po­int in the dar­kest ho­ur of the night, her he­art thud­ding. She sat bolt up­right, awa­re that Chip had left her and was on the win­dow se­at gib­be­ring an­xi­o­usly to him­self.

  The oc­cu­pant of the big fo­ur-pos­ter was thras­hing aro­und, the co­vers had fal­len to the flo­or. His bre­at­hing was harsh and rag­ged, and half-for­med words, rus­hed and non­sen­si­cal phra­ses, es­ca­ped from his lips.

  Mi­ran­da thrust asi­de the co­vers and slid off the truc­k­le bed. She ap­pro­ac­hed the big bed ten­ta­ti­vely. The earl's lar­ge fra­me was twis­ted among the she­ets. But it was his fa­ce in the star­light that bro­ught her he­art to her thro­at. His mo­uth was hard and cru­el, with a whi­te sha­de abo­ut the lips, and de­ep li­nes sco­red his fa­ce alon­g­si­de his no­se.

  Re­so­lu­tely, she put her hand on the earl's sho­ul­der, sha­king him as she sho­ok Rob­bie when the nig­h­t­ma­res had him in thrall. She spo­ke softly, ste­adily, tel­ling him who he was, whe­re he was, that ever­y­t­hing was all right, that he sho­uld open his eyes.

  Ga­reth's eyes sud­denly flew open. He sta­red un­se­e­ing at the small whi­te fa­ce abo­ve him, do­mi­na­ted by hu­ge blue eyes fil­led with an­xi­ety. The swe­et, me­lo­di­o­us vo­ice con­ti­nu­ed to wash over him and slowly the words pe­net­ra­ted and the hor­rors of the night re­ce­ded. Her hand was warm on his sho­ul­der and as the de­mons left his own eyes she wi­ped his swe­at-so­aked brow with a cor­ner of the she­et.