The Emerald Swan

Chapter Seventeen

Miranda entered Maude's chamber without a knock and was for a moment too occupied with Chip's ecstatic greeting to speak to Maude. But finally she had Chip perched on her shoulder, patting her head and whispering into her ear, and she could concentrate. "You're back early?"

"Yes, Lady Imogen decided to leave court in a hurry." Miranda perched on the edge of the table, well away from the blazing fire. "She says she has preparations to make for when the duke of Roissy arrives tomorrow." Her frown was somewhat abstracted. "I'm just wondering exactly what preparations she has in mind."

"What do you mean?" Maude leaned forward on the settle, eyes alight with interest.

"Well, she seems to think that this charade isn't working. And it does appear that there are people who are noticing that I'm rather different from what they remember of you." She told Maude what they'd overheard behind the arras, then said thoughtfully, "I think she intends to compel your obedience somehow."

"She has often threatened thus," Maude said with an obstinate turn of her mouth. "But I have told her that she could break me on the wheel and I will not abjure. And if I do not abjure, I cannot marry a French Protestant."

"No, I'm sure that's so," Miranda said a touch impatiently. "But I wonder if you really know what pressure can be brought upon you if the woman is determined. And I do believe she is utterly determined. Milord is not here at the moment to take your part, and I believe Lady Imogen is ever one to strike while the iron is hot." Her clear blue eyes held the other girl's twinned gaze and after a minute uncertainty crept into Maude's eyes.

"I cannot know what I can endure until I am put to trial," Maude said with a clear effort at bravery. "It was so with the saints."

"Yes, but I don't think you're ready to be canonized," Miranda returned with energy. "I think we should change places tonight. Just in case your cousin has some mischief in mind. You sleep in my chamber and I will sleep here."

"But why should you suffer my cousin's wrath?"

"Because I will not." Miranda grinned. "Believe me, Maude, I will prove to be more than a match for Lady Dufort."

Maude looked doubtful, but already Berthe was gathering up her chamber robe and slippers. "Come, my pet." She bustled over to her, enfolding her in the robe. "It's a good plan. The girl was sent here for a purpose and it's not for us to question the Almighty's arrangements. You know that you're far too frail to withstand Lady Dufort's ire. You'll be quite safe in the green bedchamber and I'll kindle the fire. We'll make it quite cozy, you'll see."

"But I can't leave Miranda to face the consequences of my defiance!"

"Yes you can." Miranda bundled her to the door. "You can, because I will not. I understand that you wouldn't wish anyone to suffer in your place, but you must believe that I won't. If anyone is going to suffer it'll be Lady Imogen." "What of Chip?"

"Oh, yes, he'll give the game away if he stays in here with me." She reached up and detached the monkey from her shoulder. "Chip, go with Maude, just for a little while."

The monkey allowed himself to be handed over, tucking himself into a fold of Maude's chamber robe and regarding his mistress reproachfully. She tickled his chin. "It won't be for long."

"Come, come, my pet. We mustn't linger," Berthe said urgently. "Her ladyship could come at any minute." She looked anxiously over her shoulder into the dimly lit corridor. Maude, after another hesitant look at Miranda, allowed herself to be hurried away with Chip.

Miranda unlaced her gown and removed the farthingale and petticoats, bundling them under the bed where they wouldn't be noticed. She extinguished all the candles and climbed into Maude's bed in her chemise, leaving the curtains open so that she could see the door in the firelight. If Lady Dufort was going to arrive bent on mischief, she wouldn't catch her prey napping. Maude's nightcap lay on the pillow and Miranda slipped it over her cropped hair as a final artistic touch.

The clock struck eleven, and then midnight. Miranda was growing sleepy in Maude's cozy feather bed and the fire was burning low. She began to wonder if she was mistaken. Maybe Imogen had thought better of her plan. Maybe her brother had already returned from court. But Miranda was fairly certain that the earl was not in the house. Somehow she was sure that she would know if he was.

The last strokes of midnight had faded into the night when the door burst open and Lady Dufort entered like an ill wind, accompanied by what to Miranda's startled gaze seemed a positive army of women.

Imogen had removed her black ropa and pushed up the sleeves of the cream gown in businesslike fashion. Her little eyes flashed venomous determination as she swept up to the bed, the phalanx of maids at her back. In her hand she hefted a thick blackthorn.

Miranda was still taking stock of the numbers of her potential attackers when her ladyship loomed at the bedside. With one thrust of the blackthorn, Imogen swept aside the covers.

"Seize her to the bedposts," she commanded in throbbing accents.

The maids fell upon Miranda, grabbing arms, legs, lifting her bodily from the bed.

Miranda let out an unearthly shriek and allowed her body to go limp as if she were overcome with shock. Her eyes darted to the door but it had been firmly closed, although she didn't think it had been locked.

"Bind her securely," Imogen ordered. "Arms and legs. You, woman, you have the tapes." She pointed with her stick to the oldest of her minions, a rat-faced woman who attended closely upon Lady Dufort.

"Yes, m'lady." The Woman came forward with what struck Miranda as unbecoming eagerness, thin strips of linen in her hands.

The maids had set Miranda on her feet at the foot of the bed and she hung limply in their hold, offering no resistance. It seemed that Maude was to be tied by wrists and ankles to the bedposts so that Lady Dufort could wield her stout blackthorn without hindrance.

Poor Maude, it would have gone hard with her, Miranda thought, the instant before her body jackknifed in her captors' now-slackened grip. Her arms jerked up, breaking their grasp. Two scissor kicks sent two of her assailants tumbling into the corner of the room. She spun on the balls of her feet, her arms windmilling in a wide arc, catching the rat-faced woman with the bindings across her midriff. With a faint breathy sound of astonishment, the woman fell backward onto her skinny rump.

Miranda bounced onto the bed out of reach, backing up against the headboard, where she stood at bay surveying the general carnage.

Imogen was so startled she gave vent to a banshee's scream of outrage, competing with the cries of the fallen maids.

Footsteps raced down the corridor as servants hurried from all corners of the house, emerging from the closets and attics where they slept, white-faced with terror at a noise that could only herald fire or violent intruders set to massacre the inhabitants of Lord Harcourt's mansion.

The chamberlain didn't pause for a second's reflection at the door to Lady Maude's chamber. The noise was coming from within, and with the air of one about to confront a hostile army he flung up the latch and burst open the door. Behind him, men and women crowded into the doorway, staring at the scene in Lady Maude's bedchamber, their eyes slowly, disbelievingly, following Lady Dufort's wild-eyed gaze and pointing finger to the small figure standing on the bed, arms akimbo.

Gareth, entering the house through the side door, expected to find a sleeping household. He had left the palace earlier than he'd intended. All his attempts to distract himself at the card table and in the usually congenial company of his friends over a decent bottle of burgundy had failed miserably. He ached with fatigue, his temples throbbed, and his mouth tasted of ashes. The previous sleepless night was the obvious reason and the remedy equally obvious. Miranda would be long abed and his household quiet, his own chamber a peaceful, welcoming haven of solitude.

As he emerged from the side passage into the central hall, a confusion of noise billowed down the great staircase. Male and female voices shouting, exclaiming, and above it all his sister's unmistakable rage-driven screaming. It wasn't often these days that Imogen completely lost control, but Gareth knew that sound of old. Imogen was beside herself.

He mounted the stairs two at a time and strode down the corridor toward the noise. Unless he was much mistaken, it was coming from Maude's chamber. The milling crowd at the door parted as he swept through them. "What the devil is going on?"

Imogen turned at his entrance, her finger still stabbing toward Miranda's motionless figure. "It's… it's… the oth… the other one!" she stuttered. "It's not Maude. How did she get in here? She's the devil's tool! A changeling, suckled at a witch's tit!"

At the accusation, the noise around Gareth swelled and people fell back, gasping, staring fearfully at the girl standing on the bed. Gareth said quietly, "Don't be absurd, Imogen. Take a grip on yourself. You can't go around throwing accusations of witchcraft. You know you can't."

Slowly sanity returned to Imogen's wild eyes. She shivered, clasped her arms across her breast, suddenly cold as ice. Her gaze focused finally on the room, on the gaping crowd in the doorway, on her shocked maids. And the realization that she had created this scene penetrated her befogged brain.

Gareth spoke as quietly to the chamberlain. "Send the household back to their beds, Garrison."

"Aye, m'lord." The chamberlain in his furred bed robe turned to the gawping servants. "Be off to your beds. There's nothing here for you to gape at. Be off now." He shooed at them as if they were chickens escaped from the henhouse and with obvious reluctance they obeyed, but their voices, though muted, continued to carry their excited speculation down the corridor.

"Oh, what is happening?" Maude, her eyes fixed and resolute in her white face, ran into the room. "I can't let you suffer for me, Miranda!" Chip, with a high-pitched squeal, leaped from her arms and up onto the bed, where he crouched on Miranda's shoulder and glared down with eyes like black pinpricks.

Imogen gave a low, defeated moan and covered her face with her hands.

"Lady Dufort, I believe your business is with me." Maude stepped in front of Imogen.

"Your heroics are a little late, cousin," Gareth said calmly. "Miranda, please would you get down from there?"

"I'd prefer it if you'd disarm your sister first, milord." Miranda braced her hands against the headboard. "She was going to beat Maude into submission with that great thick stick."

"What?" Gareth took in the blackthorn for the first time.

"You could break bones with it," Miranda continued with something akin to relish. "And she was going to tie her to the bedposts to do it. See the tapes that rat-faced woman has."

Gareth found the object of this accurate description without difficulty. The woman was sitting on the floor with a bemused expression on her countenance, but the strips of linen were still clutched between her hands. As Lord Harcourt's fierce gaze fell upon her, she scrambled to her feet with difficulty, her farthingale swinging wildly as she caught a toe in her petticoat with a harsh, tearing sound.

"She assaulted me, my lord," she declared as if in explanation, her voice frightened, as well it might be under the harshness of his lordship's stare. "She struck me, knocked me over."

"Well, what else would you expect?" Miranda demanded reasonably. "When someone's going to tie you up so you can be tortured, of course you defend yourself."

Maude, her moment of heroism over, gazed in astonishment at Miranda. Her eyes began to brim with laughter as she glanced sideways at Imogen, and with a stifled little sound, she sank onto the settee, burying her face in a cushion.

With a curt gesture, Gareth dismissed Imogen's maids. There was little point blaming them for obeying their mistress's orders. Then he turned back to Imogen.

Imogen, her hands shaking, was sitting on the window seat. Her eyes were blank with shock and the aftermath of hysteria. She looked at her brother. "I did it for you, Gareth," she said in a low voice. "Only for you. I did it for you."

"I know, Imogen," he said, and there was both sadness and a great weariness in his voice. He came over to her, took her hands, and gently drew her to her feet. "When will you realize that I don't need…" Then he shook his head. "Never mind. What is, is. Go to bed, now." He touched her cheek with his fingertips as if in benediction, then escorted her to the door.

"Were you sleeping in Miranda's chamber, Maude?"

Maude raised her head from the cushion. "I wasn't sleeping, sir. I couldn't possibly sleep when I was waiting for something to happen."

"No, well, perhaps you can now. I suggest you return there for tonight."

"Why, do you think Lady Imogen will try again?"

"No, but I wish to have private speech with Miranda, so do as I ask, please."

Maude cast a startled look at Miranda, then she turned and left the chamber.

Gareth walked to the high bed. Reaching up, he hooked Miranda's waist and lifted her down. He held her off the ground and away from him, looking into her face. She regarded him gravely, trying to read his expression, but it was completely impassive, offering no clues to his thoughts.

"God help me," he said finally, sounding perfectly affable. "If I'd known how you were going to turn my life upside down, firefly, I'd have run from Dover as if all hell's hounds were on my heels."

"You wouldn't have expected me to stand aside and let your sister do her worst, though. Not when I knew she was planning to force Maude."

He shook his head equably. "No, I wouldn't have expected you to do that. Knowing you as I do. I wouldn't even have expected you to have stayed with Maude as protection until I returned." A fleeting smile tugged at his mouth." That would have been really too simple."

Miranda wondered if he was ever going to set her on her feet again, but she made no protest. His hands were warm and firm at her waist, and there was an intensity in his eyes that belied his casual tone. "In truth, milord, I didn't think of that."

He nodded. "Of course you didn't." There was silence again. Chip, who was now sitting on the pillows, began to comb his hair with his fingers, but despite this absorbing activity, his eyes darted watchfully toward the two figures in the middle of the room. A green log flared in the fireplace. The clock chimed the half hour.

Miranda touched Gareth's mouth with her little finger. It was a light, delicate little brush that brought a tingle to his lips. He snapped at her finger, drawing it into his mouth, and she laughed softly, bringing her other hand up to trace the line of his jaw, before moving her head and kissing his eyelids. She fluttered her eyelashes against his cheekbones and her breath was a warm rustle on his skin. She kissed the point of his chin, her tongue rasping over his nighttime beard.

Slowly, he allowed her to slide through his hands until her feet were on the floor. Cupping her face, he brought his mouth to hers. With a delighted little sigh, Miranda closed her eyes and yielded to the leisurely arousal of a kiss that engulfed her so completely that her mouth became the focus of all sensation, a warm crimson pool of pleasure.

Gareth finally raised his head. His eyes, where reason and passion fought for supremacy, were almost black. Then Miranda moved against him and he could smell her hair, her skin, the powerful fragrance of arousal mingling with the delicacy of rosewater and jasmine. And reason lost the battle. He tucked her neatly beneath his arm and strode from the chamber, Chip scampering after them.

Gareth raised the latch on his chamber door, pushed it open, marched in, and kicked it shut behind him. Chip gave vent to an outraged jabber on the far side of the door.

"Your pardon," Gareth muttered, opening the door again. The monkey leaped inside and jumped onto the mantelpiece where he resumed his grooming, bright black eyes darting around the room.

Gareth tossed Miranda onto the bed and stood looking down at her, his hands on his hips. "My sister may have had a point about witchcraft," he mused. "I can think of no other explanation for this madness."

Miranda smiled up at him. The atmosphere was very different from last night, when everything that had happened had taken place in a mystical, dreamlike circle of enchantment. Here, in the earl's chamber, there was no mystery and no magic. He was a man of flesh and blood, intent and desirous, and she was more powerfully aware of her body and its hungers than she would have believed possible. Last night, she had had no words to describe what had happened to her or what she wanted, but tonight she knew with a wondrous, shameless clarity.

Gareth began to throw off his clothes, his movements deft and economical, but his eyes burned and his breath came fast as if he had been running.

Miranda pulled her chemise over her head and tossed it aside. She kneeled up on the bed, regarding his movements with candid curiosity. Her tongue touched her lips as his hands unlaced his hose and Gareth almost laughed at a gesture that was as salacious as it was innocent. He propped a foot on the edge of the bed and rolled down his netherstocks. Miranda followed every movement as intendy as if her life depended upon it. She had seen naked men many times, but never this one. And naked, he was so very beautiful.

She reached for his lean hips, sitting back on her heels as she brought her mouth to the spike of flesh jutting in a slight curve from the black curly hair between his legs. She inhaled his dark male smell as her mouth moved along the shaft, her tongue stroking, teeth grazing lightly, as assured as if the knowledge of how to pleasure him had been hers from birth.

Her fingers curled into the hard, muscled contours of his buttocks and she felt his hands move to her head and shoulder, the quickening in his flesh against her tongue, the ripples in his belly.

"Not so hasty, sweeting." His voice was a low throb as he raised her head, stepped back slightly.

Mischievously, her tongue followed him, darting to lick the moist, salty tip. "Why not?" She kneeled up again, running her hands over his chest, pressing her belly to his, feeling his hardened flesh quiver against her loins. She parted her knees, taking him between her legs, pressing tightly, enclosing him in the soft, satiny inner skin of her thighs.

His hands moved to the small of her back, supporting her. Her body bent backward as she worked her thighs, pressing, releasing, until his soft groans of delight filled the room. Her head fell back, the white column of her throat arched, and her eyes were closed beneath paper-thin blue-veined lids. He bent his head to take her parted lips with his, tasting himself in her mouth.

Sliding his hands down to cup her bottom, he lifted her on his palms from the bed. Unerringly, she curled her legs around his waist, her arms holding his neck, her body opened to receive him.

Her eyes opened and she laughed joyously into his transported face as he slid within her and her loins joined with his in a fusion so complete, it felt that nothing could ever separate them. Her body rode the thrusting shaft and she laughed again.

Gareth smiled, his fingers curling into her backside, watching her face. He was filled with a great joy, a sweeping tenderness, a profound astonishment that this inexperienced innocent could so unerringly play the game of love. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes took on the dark and misty hues of a dusk sky. She was suddenly very still in his hands, all movement concentrated on the ridge of her inner muscles tightening around him. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes widening as the spiral coiled ever tighter in her belly.

He was buried deep in her body, every ripple of the enclosing sheath translated into his own flesh. The world shrank to the small space containing their fused bodies. He felt himself slipping away into the waiting maelstrom, and as he clung for a minute longer, a deep shudder ran through her and her body convulsed around him in waves of ever-deepening intensity.

He held himself taut, unable to breathe until her climax peaked and finally drove him over the edge with a great and savage cry of astonishment and joy.

Her head dropped onto his shoulder, her arms clinging to his neck as her now-limp body relaxed and he took her slight weight.

"Dear God, sweeting, where did you learn such wicked magic?" he murmured against her damp neck.

"I don't know," she muttered. "But it was magic, wasn't it?" She uncurled her legs and he let her slip to the floor. She tossed her head back so that her disordered hair fell once again into its shining cap and regarded him with such an air of smug triumph that despite the languor of fulfillment he gave a shout of laughter.

He scooped her into his arms again and kissed her, brushing her hair back from her forehead, smiling down at her. Then a shadow chased the smile from his eyes, his mouth lost some of its softness.

"I'm very hungry." Instinctively, Miranda shattered the stretched silence with the banal comment. " There was no supper at court. Why is it that there are never any refreshments?"

"The queen is somewhat frugal," Gareth responded. "Some might say parsimonious. But there's food on the tray." He gestured to the tray that as always awaited him. He watched her pad across to the table, bend over the offerings. He ran his hands through his own hair, absorbing the smooth, pale lines of her back, the nipped-in waist, the slight flare of her hips, the taut contours of her bottom, the long, muscled slimness of her thighs.

His nostrils flared as desire grew again, overpowering the moment of regret, the shadow of foreknowledge that had just gripped him. She turned with a cold chicken leg between finger and thumb. Her eyes darted down his body, widening in mock astonishment.

"Goodness me, milord. Are you something of a satyr? I think that's the word I want." Gnawing on the drumstick, she padded back to him, her eyes glinting with her own quickly stimulated passion. "Is there a different way to do it, perhaps? Just for variety, you understand." She tore off a piece of meat with her teeth and offered it to him, placing her fingers right into his mouth.

Gareth took her wrist and very slowly drew her hand from his mouth. He licked each finger with long strokes of his tongue, before leaning over her shoulder. He filled a wineglass with the deep red burgundy from the flagon, took a deep draught, then caught the back of her head, bringing her face close to his. His mouth took hers and the warm red wine flowed over her tongue, mingling with the juice and taste of him.

She savored the liquid, her tongue dancing with his as the wine swirled around her mouth before lingeringly she swallowed it. "More."

He nodded, took another drink, and repeated the process, drawing her down onto his lap as he sat in the armchair, feeding her the wine in sips as she selected succulent morsels from the tray and pushed them between his lips with delicate, dawdling fingers.

It was cockcrow before they tired of the game. Miranda leaned back against his shoulder, her legs shifting on his lap as he covered the soft mound of her sex, indolently playful fingers stroking the little nub of passion, fingertips delicately nipping the soft lips. She lay sprawled on his lap as his hand brought a wonderful, spreading, languid pleasure, and offered only the sleepiest of satisfied smiles when he lifted her against him and carried her to the bed, laying her down before climbing in beside her.

"I hope we wake up before the duke arrives," Miranda mumbled with a sleepy chuckle, turning onto her side, fitting her bottom into the curve of his hip. Gareth did not respond. But he was no longer sleepy. He lay looking up at the brocade canopy, following the familiar pattern of interlocking vine leaves as the room lightened with the dawn and Miranda's breathing deepened.

All his misgiving returned in full measure, bringing with it bitter guilt and anger. What kind of weakling was he, yielding to temptation like this?

He lay sleepless for a time, his body aching and restless, as acid self-recrimination turned his stomach.

Finally he slept, restless and fitful, his sleep punctuated with erotic dreams that were flavored with loss.