The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was clo­se to eight o'clock when Ga­reth left the ho­use. Mi­ran­da was back in her own cham­ber, her nig­h­t­ti­me's ab­sen­ce un­de­tec­ted by any mem­ber of the ho­use­hold, and now he had one task to per­form, one do­or to bolt, be­fo­re Henry of Fran­ce ar­ri­ved.

  He fo­und the cob­bler's shop wit­ho­ut dif­fi­culty. It was a sto­ne's throw from whe­re he'd co­me upon the tro­upe put­ting on the­ir show. The cob­bler was al­re­ady at work at his awl but he lo­oked up with an in­vi­ting smi­le when the nob­le­man en­te­red the small dark shop, duc­king his he­ad be­ne­ath the low lin­tel.

  The man jum­ped to his fe­et. Such cus­to­mers we­re few and far bet­we­en. "What can I do fer ye, m'lord?" He bo­wed, his no­se brus­hing his le­at­her ap­ron.

  "My bu­si­ness is with yo­ur lod­gers. Are they abo­ves­ta­irs?"

  The cob­bler lo­oked di­sap­po­in­ted, but he has­te­ned to the bot­tom of the nar­row sta­ir­ca­se le­ading to the up­per flo­or. "I'll fetch one of 'em down, m'lord."

  "No… no, I'll go up." Ga­reth ga­ve him a nod and brus­hed past him. The cob­bler he­si­ta­ted, then he to­ok three si­lent steps un­til he re­ac­hed the tight bend in the sta­irs. The­re he wa­ited, lis­te­ning.

  Ga­reth knoc­ked at the do­or at the he­ad of the sta­irs but re­ce­ived no res­pon­se. A bur­b­le of vo­ices swel­led thro­ugh the oak, in­ter­s­per­sed with thumps and bangs and the oc­ca­si­onal cur­se. With a shrug, he ra­ised the hasp and pus­hed open the do­or.

  The crow­ded ro­om se­et­hed with ac­ti­vity. Its oc­cu­pants we­re rol­ling up bed­ding, re­pa­iring the pre­ci­o­us in­di­vi­du­al to­ols of the­ir tra­de, ten­ding to the­ir per­so­nal ne­eds. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de, her shift pul­led down and bun­d­led at her wa­ist, was was­hing her mas­si­ve tor­so in a bowl of wa­ter. She drop­ped the was­h­c­loth with an ex­c­la­ma­ti­on.

  "Lord lo­ve us! It's Lord 'Arco­urt." Her hu­ge bre­asts flop­ped over the rolls of flesh at her wa­ist as she stra­ig­h­te­ned from the ba­sin. Her fa­ce was con­cer­ned. "Is sum­mat the mat­ter with Mi­ran­da, m'lord?"

  "No, not as of half an ho­ur ago," he sa­id, dis­c­re­etly aver­ting his eyes. "For­gi­ve me for dis­tur­bing you, but the­re is so­met­hing very im­por­tant I ne­ed to dis­cuss."

  "Con­cerns Mi­ran­da, do­es it?" Ra­o­ul de­man­ded, set­ting a le­at­her tan­kard down on a cof­fer and wi­ping his mo­uth on the back of his hand.

  "'Co­ur­se it do­es," Ber­t­rand rum­b­led.

  "Whe­re is M'ran­da?" Rob­bie pi­ped up from the sto­ol whe­re he was gro­oming Lu­ke's lit­tle dog. "She sa­id she'd co­me back." He strug­gled to his fe­et. "She is co­min' back, in't she, sir?"

  This was go­ing to be mo­re dif­fi­cult than he'd an­ti­ci­pa­ted. Ga­reth be­ca­me awa­re of Lu­ke's eyes fi­xed upon him in a less than fri­endly fas­hi­on. The yo­uth set down the hor­se­ha­ir ho­op he had be­en rep­la­iting and wa­ited for the earl's an­s­wer.

  "I think this is a dis­cus­si­on I sho­uld ha­ve with Ber­t­rand and Ger­t­ru­de," Ga­reth sa­id, with an in­ter­ro­ga­ti­ve glan­ce to­ward tho­se two, no­ting with re­li­ef that the lat­ter had ha­uled up her shift and was bu­sily set-ding her bre­asts be­ne­ath the dingy ma­te­ri­al.

  "You say she's all right?" Ger­t­ru­de de­man­ded, eyes sud­denly very sharp.

  Ga­reth nod­ded. "I ha­ve a pro­po­si­ti­on-"

  "We'll not be sel­lin' the girl in­to who­re­dom… Beg-gin' yer par­don, m'lord, fer spe­akin' me mind, but she's go­od as me da­ug­h­ter an' I'll not-"

  "Ma­dam!" Ga­reth held up a hand. "I as­su­re you that that's not what I am pro­po­sing."

  "Best ta­ke this to the ta­vern," Ber­t­rand dec­la­red, la­ying down the flu­te that he'd be­en cle­aning. "You co­min', Ma­ma?"

  Ger­t­ru­de was la­cing the bo­di­ce of her pu­ce gown. "The­re's not­hin' to be dis­cus­sed abo­ut our Mi­ran­da wi'out I'm the­re. She's go­od as me da­ug­h­ter." She gla­red at Lord Har­co­urt, who tri­ed a pla­ca­tory smi­le.

  He ope­ned the do­or. "After you, ma­dam."

  Ger­t­ru­de mo­ved past him in a rus­t­le of pu­ce and scar­let. "Eh, you the­re. Can't ke­ep yer big ears to yer­self!" she cri­ed as the cob­bler, ca­ught off gu­ard, ma­de has­te to ret­re­at down the sta­irs. Ger­t­ru­de swept him ahe­ad of her as if he we­re so much dust to her bro­om. "Right che­ek ye've got, lis­te­nin' to what don't con­cern ye."

  The cob­bler scut­tled back to his awl. To add in­sult to inj­ury, he hadn't he­ard an­y­t­hing of in­te­rest an­y­way.

  The Cross Keys ta­vern was qu­i­et at this ho­ur of the mor­ning. Ga­reth or­de­red a fla­gon of best ca­nary and Ber­t­rand nod­ded with ap­pro­val as they sat down in a sec­lu­ded cor­ner of the tap­ro­om. Ger­t­ru­de lo­oked sus­pi­ci­o­usly in­to her wi­ne cup as the earl fil­led it to the brim.

  "We ce­leb­ra­tin' sum­mat, m'lord?"

  "In a man­ner of spe­aking," he sa­id, ta­king a le­at­her po­uch from his do­ub­let poc­ket. He la­id it on the tab­le, then ca­su­al­ly lif­ted his wi­ne cup to his lips.

  "What's this, then?" Ber­t­rand po­ked at the po­uch. "Fifty ro­se nob­les."

  Si­len­ce gre­eted this. Ber­t­rand ran his ton­gue over his lips. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de sta­red at the earl with so­met­hing akin to hos­ti­lity. "What d'ye want from us, m'lord?"

  "I want you to le­ave Lon­don to­day and re­turn to Fran­ce." Ga­reth drank his wi­ne.

  "Wi'out Mi­ran­da?" Ger­t­ru­de de­man­ded, tur­ning sud­denly on Ber­t­rand, who­se hand was now pro­tec­ti­vely co­ve­ring the le­at­her po­uch, al­t­ho­ugh he hadn't qu­ite pic­ked it up. "Eh, Ber­t­rand. Le­ave it alo­ne. It's blo­od mo­ney."

  Ber­t­rand mo­ved his hand, co­ug­hed, spat on the saw­dust at his fe­et, and pic­ked up his wi­ne cup aga­in.

  "Not qu­
ite," Ga­reth sa­id. "I ha­ve a ta­le to tell you."

  His audi­en­ce lis­te­ned, rapt and in­c­re­du­lo­us, to the story of the night of Sa­int Bar­t­ho­lo­mew, twenty ye­ars ear­li­er. "So you can see that it's in Mi­ran­da's best in­te­rests for you to le­ave her to her new li­fe," he fi­nis­hed.

  "Aye," Ger­t­ru­de sa­id slowly. "So the ot­her lass is 'er sis­ter." She sho­ok her he­ad. "Li­ke as two pe­as they are. But why 'aven't ye told Mi­ran­da the truth?"

  "Be­ca­use I'm not su­re how she'll ta­ke it," Ga­reth sa­id frankly. "And I ne­ed her co­ope­ra­ti­on. On­ce my plans for her fu­tu­re are in pla­ce, then I'll tell her, and I'm ho­ping that by then she'll be so used to li­ving the li­fe of a nob­le­wo­man it won't co­me as qu­ite such a shock. But…" He le­aned over the tab­le, his ex­p­res­si­on in­tent. "You must un­der­s­tand that whi­le her old li­fe is still he­re for her to slip in­to whe­ne­ver she fe­els li­ke it, she won't get used to her new li­fe."

  "'Is lor­d­s­hip spe­aks sen­se, Ma­ma," Ber­t­rand sa­id, his hand on­ce mo­re co­ve­ring the le­at­her po­uch. "Ye can't say 'e do­esn't."

  "Aye," Ger­t­ru­de ag­re­ed. "But we can't just go wi'out a word to Mi­ran­da."

  "She tho­ught you we­re in Fran­ce be­fo­re. She tho­ught you'd left her at Do­ver," Ga­reth re­min­ded her. "It sad­de­ned her, but she'd ac­cep­ted it un­til you re­ap­pe­ared. She'll ac­cept it aga­in."

  "It don't sit right," Ger­t­ru­de sa­id stub­bornly.

  "Eh, co­me on, Ma­ma," Ber­t­rand mut­te­red. "Fifty ro­se nob­les, wo­man! Think on't."

  "I am!" Ger­t­ru­de snap­ped. "I'm no fo­ol, I know what it me­ans."

  "Think what this me­ans for Mi­ran­da," Ga­reth pres­sed, his vo­ice soft and per­su­asi­ve. He had al­most won. "You wo­uldn't want to stand in her way, not if you ca­re for her."

  "No," Ger­t­ru­de ag­re­ed. "But it jest don't sit right to up and go wi'out a word."