Corbin's Fancy

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Used, I think. Maybe slightly taken-advantage-of.”

  “Slightly?” Every muscle in Fancy’s small, trim body seemed to contract. “Slightly? Tell me, when and if I should marry, what am I to say to my husband? That losing my virtue was part of my job?”

  “Fancy—”

  “Damn you, don’t you dare try to reassure me! You’re a rich man, used to getting what you want, and nothing else matters to you—including the effect this could have on the rest of my life!”

  His hands left her waist for her shoulders, gripping them gently. “Will you listen to me?” he pleaded, in such earnest tones that Fancy was almost fooled, almost lulled into believing that he really had her best interests in mind. “I’m trying to tell you that—”

  “Don’t tell me anything! I’m not interested in being placated!”

  “Do you think I’m that pompous, that arrogant?”

  “Yes!”

  A muscle flexed in his jaw, then stilled. “Fancy, we can’t stay here,” he went on persistently. “Not after what’s happened.”

  Fancy had already come to that conclusion herself, but it was surprising to hear it from Jeff. “I completely agree,” she said, in stiff tones, wishing that she had the nerve and the strength to break free of his grasp and walk away.

  “Good. Then perhaps you’ll also agree that there is a magic between us that has nothing to do with your pulling rabbits out of hats.”

  Fancy stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Magic?”

  “I’ve never before felt the way I did with you, Fancy. Not ever.” He sighed and his grip on her shoulders eased a little. “Will you go away with me?”

  The idea had more appeal than Fancy would ever admit. “And do what?”

  “And be my mistress.”

  Any dreams that might have been stirring to life were instantly dashed. Of course he would suggest that, after the way she’d encouraged him. That was no surprise. And yet, after only one day, she’d dared to hope that Jeff was beginning to love her.

  She lifted her hand and slapped him with all the force of her grief, her confusion, and her shame. He was stunned enough to slacken his hold and Fancy whirled away to run, her skirts bunched in her fingers.

  Certain that she could not bear to face Amelie or Keith or the understanding Alva, Fancy avoided the house and plunged into the orchard. Her breathing was ragged and raw, dry little sobs tore themselves from her throat as she fled.

  “Frances!” bellowed Jeff, and she heard him behind her, gaining fast.

  She tried to accelerate her own pace, caught one foot in the hem of her dress, and went tumbling to the soft, blossom-cushioned ground. Jeff was upon her instantly, wrenching her onto her back and then pinning her beneath his delightful, reprehensible, inescapable weight.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded, looking fierce in the gathering twilight.

  Fancy could not form sensible words; she wailed with grief and writhed, trying to free herself. The frantic sobs continued to well up from within her.

  Jeff caught her face between both his hands and stayed the motion of her head, though her body still rebelled beneath his. “Stop it!” he hissed.

  Something in the tone of his voice reached Fancy’s reason and she was still, though tears were streaming down her face and her chest was still heaving. “Get—off of—me!” she choked out.

  “Not until you listen to me, damn you! I wasn’t trying to insult you when I asked you to be my mistress!”

  “Well, it’s an honor I can do without!” croaked Fancy.

  “What the devil do you want from me?” he retorted furiously. “Marriage?”

  “I wouldn’t marry you!”

  One of his imperious eyebrows arched in contemptuous disbelief. “Oh, no?”

  “No!”

  He looked oddly pensive. Even reflective. “It would solve a few problems,” he mused.

  “Not for me it wouldn’t!”

  Jeff held Fancy firmly beneath him, quelling any possibility of struggle. “Wouldn’t it? Think, Fancy—you wouldn’t have to haul that rodent from one town to another. And, of course, things would be very different for your family—”

  Fancy’s eyes widened and though Jeff stretched her arms out above her head and pressed them to the soft ground, she did not resist. “What do you mean?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  Fancy dared to imagine her mother and father freed from the ceaseless drudgery of their lives and her throat constricted. “Y–You would take care of them?”

  “Yes. And you.” He chuckled. “And even your fat, stupid rabbit.”

  Fancy’s wrists were caught together, in just one of Jeff’s hands, and still she didn’t struggle. “What about you? How would you benefit?”

  Jeff laughed and Fancy felt his fingers at the buttons of her bodice. A delicious tremor of terror and need went through her. “How indeed?” he taunted, reaching beneath her dress and camisole to cup one straining breast in his palm.

  Fancy groaned as he stroked the nipple, causing it to stand erect. “You don’t have to marry anyone to get that!” she protested.

  “I do if I want it all to myself,” he replied. “Marry me, Fancy. Do all your magic in my bed.”

  “But you’re not—we’re not in love!”

  “True enough. But I can’t have the woman I love, ever. You’ve already worked miracles—maybe you could even make me forget Banner.”

  Fancy had never been more wounded. She closed her eyes and wished that she could die. “You let me up, Jeff Corbin. Right now!”

  His hand, sweetly tormenting her right breast only a moment before, was now dragging her skirts upward, now sliding intimately along her inner thigh, now undoing the ties that held her drawers in place. He still gripped Fancy’s wrists firmly, though there was no pain, and his mouth was at the breast he had so skillfully prepared for conquering. He circled the taut nipple with the tip of his tongue and simultaneously slid his hand inside her pantaloons to her abdomen.

  Fancy arched her back in unwilling response as his fingers found the nest of curls at the junction of her thighs and passed beyond to caress the tiny, swelling treasure hidden there. “You said—ooooh—you said I would b–be too tender—”

  He chuckled at her breast, flogged the pulsing nipple with a gifted tongue. “Not for this,” he rasped, and then his fingers were plucking at the moist morsel that guarded her womanhood, causing Fancy to anguish and yet to thrust her legs wide apart so that he could have fuller access. Her reward was a steady, circling caress that made her breath come fast and sent her hips into a frantic dance all their own.

  “Jeff—oh, God—Jeff, Jeff!”

  Fancy’s soft whimpering drew a groan from him; he bared her other breast and roused its nipple to saucy impertinence with his teeth. But instead of suckling, he talked to her, in low, gruff tones, promising her the most outrageous of erotic pleasures, describing them in detail.

  Fancy was overwhelmed by needs he seemed determined to spawn but not grant. Somehow, she got her hands free and they came unerringly to the front of his trousers, making short work of the belt buckle and buttons there. Feverish, she clasped the bared, heated length of his shaft in her hands.

  Jeff gasped and then trembled, now her prisoner as she was his. A low moan grated past his lips as she plied his magnificence to an even grander state.

  Aware of a new and undreamed-of power, Fancy shifted to her knees, facing him, stroking him in a hand-over-hand motion that made him shudder in a splendid sort of surrender. He bore the pleasure as long as he dared, then thrust Fancy backward, onto the soft orchard grass, hiking up her skirts and disposing of her drawers with a desperate swiftness. Cupping her firm bottom in both hands, he lifted her up and entered her in one searing thrust.

  Fancy uttered a gasping whimper, for he had built her to such a pitch of need that her body immediately convulsed in brutal release. This early triumph permitted her yet another new joy—watching the w
ild passion in Jeff’s face, feeling it play in his body like a symphony.

  She slid her hands underneath his shirt, glorying in the warm power of the muscles in his back. Softly, wickedly, she urged him on and on until he cried out in desolation and victory, lunging deep within her and shuddering as she received the fruit of his passion and cradled it within her.

  * * *

  It was late and the road was dark. The moon, riding high in the sky, was waning, part of it smudged away as if by some celestial finger. At the sound of an approaching wagon, Fancy leaped off to the side of the road, her valise in one hand and Hershel’s cage in the other, to cower in the ditch.

  A trail of thin golden light spilled ahead of the team and wagon and a man’s voice rose in a raucous baritone. Fancy closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t be seen, but the snorts of the horses and the squeak of a brake lever forewarned her that God was not hearing the pleas of wantons who coupled in barns and orchards with men who weren’t their husbands.

  “Say!” boomed a friendly and totally unfamiliar voice. “What are you doing there?”

  Fancy straightened and stepped up out of the ditch, nearly losing her balance, Hershel, and the valise in the process. “Just walking,” she lied.

  The outrageous prevarication made the man in the wagon seat laugh. The dim light of the headlamp affixed to the side of his wildly decorated vehicle revealed him to be a harmless looking sort with thatches of thin red hair sticking out from beneath his bowler hat. His suit was an obnoxious plaid and he was a small man, smaller even than Fancy herself. “Just walking, is it? And would you like to ride awhile?”

  Fancy paused, studying the man, listening to instincts well-developed by three years of traveling largely on her own. “I don’t know your name,” she said.

  “I don’t know yours, either, as it happens.”

  Fancy smiled, despite her weariness and the churning pain that ground within her. “Fancy Jordan.”

  He doffed his hat in a comical motion. “I am Phineas T. Pryor,” he replied.

  Fancy squinted at the side of his decorated wagon and saw that he advertised himself as a man who could both fly and cure a startling array of ills. She supposed that was no more outrageous than her own claim to sing, dance, and do magic. “Are you a gentleman, Mr. Pryor?”

  “Oh, indeed. Are you a lady, Miss Jordan?”

  Fancy thought of the episode in the orchard earlier that evening, and decided that it was to her advantage to lie. “Yes,” she said.

  Phineas T. Pryor climbed down from the wagon box and, after tipping it once more, replaced his hat. He took Fancy’s valise and Hershel’s cage and placed them carefully in the back of the wagon, along with the battered signboard proclaiming his companion’s talents. That done, he proceeded, as if determined to prove that he was indeed a gentleman, to help his passenger up into the wagon seat.

  They were well down the dark road before he spoke seriously. “You’ll be safe, you know.”

  Fancy had known that much intuitively. “Yes, I know,” she said, all the same.

  “Can you really sing, dance, and do magic?” he asked, his gentle eyes on the road ahead. Obviously, he’d read the signboard.

  “Can you really fly and cure diseases?” countered Fancy. The loss of Jeff Corbin was a throbbing ache in her heart, but she couldn’t let herself think about him or his proposal or his lovemaking. After all, she wasn’t suited to him, the way Amelie was to Keith.

  “I can fly,” conceded Phineas, with a wry grin. “With a little help from my balloon, that is.”

  Fancy squinted at him. “Balloon?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s a veteran of the War Between the States, my balloon.”

  Fancy was much relieved that Mr. Pryor didn’t believe himself capable of flying under his own power. “I’d certainly like to see it sometime,” she said, with genuine interest.

  “It’s a sight you won’t soon forget, Miss Jordan,” Phineas allowed proudly. “A sight you’ll never forget.”

  An unbidden tear slid down Fancy’s cheek and she turned abruptly away to hide it. There were other things she would not soon forget, and a balloon was the least of them.

  * * *

  Fancy yawned and stretched, fully expecting to awaken in the clean, homey bedroom off Keith Corbin’s kitchen. Instead, she found herself in the middle of a carnival. A tent was being raised, concession stands were being assembled. And an incredible orange and white balloon loomed against an ice-blue summer sky.

  “Good morning!” sang Phineas, extending slender, fatherly arms to help her down from the seat of his garish wagon.

  For just a moment, Fancy stared at her new friend in bewilderment. And then everything came back to her—Jeff, her hasty departure from his brother’s house, her soiled virtue. She would have cried if Phineas hadn’t forestalled the action by chiming, “Come now, and have some breakfast. Fresh trout—caught it myself, in the river.”

  The scent of trout wafted toward Fancy from a nearby campfire and buoyed her spirits as well as her appetite. Broken heart or none, there was nothing wrong with her stomach.

  Sitting rumpled and groggy on the stump of a pine tree, she ate the pan-fried fish that Phineas offered and drank strong coffee from an enamel mug. Once the edges had been taken off her hunger, she assessed her surroundings.

  Though Mr. Shibble’s troupe was not there, as far as Fancy could tell, there was quite an assortment of entertainments, including a fat lady, a fortuneteller, and two elephants. Best of all, though, was the gigantic orange and white hot-air balloon that shifted against the bright sky, straining at the ropes and cable that held it to the ground.

  Fancy drew in a swift breath, her coffee mug poised between her mouth and her lap. “Is that yours?” she asked of Phineas, though her eyes would not leave the balloon.

  There was a beaming quality in his voice. “Surely is, Miss Jordan.”

  Fancy was spellbound. “What makes it fly?”

  “The inside of the balloon is heated with gas. Since hydrogen is much lighter than air, it naturally rises.”

  “How do you steer it?” fretted Fancy, still squinting at the wondrous vessel that could brave the skies.

  Phineas laughed. “You don’t steer her, little one. She rides the air currents, going where the wind takes her.”

  “Currents?”

  “Yes. You see, Fancy, the air around us is much like an ocean—it flows and swirls just the way water does.”

  At last, Fancy looked away from the magnificent balloon. “How much do you charge? For a ride in your sky vessel, I mean?”

  Phineas chuckled. “One thin dime, my dear. One thin dime. But for you—a smile.”

  Fancy knew a delicious terror. Fascinating as the prospect was, she didn’t believe she had the courage to leave the ground that way. What if the balloon deflated, as balloons will? What if it strayed far, far away?

  Again, Fancy felt dismal. It didn’t much matter where she ended up, did it? No one was waiting for her anywhere.

  “What is it, child?” Phineas asked directly, in gentle tones, pouring more coffee into Fancy’s cup. “What makes that terrible ache in your eyes?”

  Fancy trembled and took a steadying sip of the bitter coffee. How she wished that she could confide in Phineas—obviously he was a kind man—but there was nothing to be gained by letting him know what a wanton she was. “I–I’m just a little down on my luck,” she allowed.

  “He’ll come, you know.”

  “Who?” puzzled Fancy.

  “The man you left,” replied Phineas confidently. And then he strolled away to consult with a man who carried a monkey on his shoulder.

  After a moment of self-recovery, Fancy finished her breakfast and went off to explore. She found a clear stream near the carnival site and carried her plate and cup there, along with Phineas’s, to wash them. That done, she cleansed her face and hands, too, and then went back to the camp, gathering dandelion greens as she went. These she gave to Hershel, along
with a tin saucer of water.

  She had brushed and repinned her hair by the time Phineas returned, chattering amicably with a tall, muscular man clad in a cheap suit and a bowler hat. Her gray woolen dress was rumpled for more reasons than Fancy cared to think about, and she tried in vain to smooth it.

  “I was telling Mr. Stroble here about your act,” her friend explained. “He’s in charge of this magnificent show we see around us.”

  Fancy smiled, thinking what a truly good friend Phineas Pryor was turning out to be. Here was her chance to earn enough money to keep going until she could find more permanent circumstances. “How do you do, Mr. Stroble?”

  Stroble harumphed and it was clear that he did not quite approve of Fancy. Very likely, he was a farmer or businessman, rather than a showman, and thus inclined to look down on people, particularly women, who earned their livelihood in such an unconventional fashion. “Pryor tells me that you sing and dance.”

  Fancy neither sang nor danced, when she could get out of it. Her voice was true but rather thin, and her dancing was downright awkward. “I prefer to perform magic,” she said.

  “Good,” gruffed Mr. Stroble. “Country folks ain’t much for singin’ ‘less it’s gospel. Set up your tent, if you’ve got one, and you’ll get two dollars for the day.”

  Two dollars was a small fortune for a day’s work, and Fancy knew that if she performed well, she would earn that grand sum every day that the fair ran. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Do you have a tent?” demanded Phineas, the moment Stroble had marched away.

  Fancy was fitful. Suppose Hershel failed her again? Suppose the few tricks she knew fell flat? “Of course not!” she snapped, instantly regretting her sharpness.

  Phineas was not offended; indeed, he seemed to understand. “I’ve a small table in the wagon,” he soothed. “It has a canvas canopy—you can use that.”

  “Don’t you need it?” challenged Fancy.

  “Only use it when it rains,” disclaimed Mr. Pryor grandly. “I’ll get it for you.”

  It was while Phineas was dragging the table and canopy out of the wagon that Fancy noticed the alarming grayness of his skin, the faint blue tinge around his mouth. Without thinking, she caught his elbow in her hand and cried, “Phineas—are you ill?”