by Laura Parker
“Of course he does,” Ebba answered. “Can’t you see how proud he is of his son? He’s just popping to show off the boy as his.”
Cassandra’s doubtful glance was answered by a smug look from Merlyn. “How will you feed him without me?”
The solution was as quick and easy as Ebba’s handiwork. In exactly five minutes Adam was pulling at an improvised bottle made from a goatskin pouch. “He likes Nanna’s milk,” Ebba said, referring to her cow.
“Perhaps,” Cassandra breathed reluctantly.
“Without a doubt,” Merlyn seconded and dropped a kiss on Ebba’s white hair at the crown. “You’re still a witch, Ebba. I knew you’d have the solution. Now, wife, we must see to ourselves.”
“What do you have in mind?” Cassandra asked, almost certain she would not like his answer.
The hour was late, the day nearly spent, as Cassandra knelt on the bank of the River Avon and washed her soiled dress. Beside her in two piles were her scrubbed petticoats and Merlyn’s shirt. Clad only in her sacque, she felt the breeze stir in chilly eddies across her shoulders and back. Merlyn lay on his side, one arm propping up his head, and watching. “Will they be dry by morning?”
“With a touch of a hot iron they’ll be fine,” she answered.
When the last flash of the red-gold sun slipped behind the hill Merlyn rose to his feet. He made no noise as he shucked his breeches. Cassandra didn’t move till he dropped the garment in her lap. “That’s the last,” he cried as he sped past her.
Cassandra looked up in time to glimpse a broad naked back and pale buttocks before he took a flying leap into the autumn-chilled river. A moment later, his shiny head, streaming water in inky trickles, broke the surface. “The soap,” he called after her.
Cassandra tossed the cake in his direction and managed a hoarse “You’ll catch your death.”
Mercy! she thought in stunned reflection. He was more magnificent than she remembered. Not an ounce of fat on him, yet he was full-fleshed, hard and firm, with nicely rounded buttocks, the kind a woman would long to cup in her hands. The thought made her blush furiously and she was glad of the dark. She began scrubbing his breeches, only to remember that they were in daily contact with the part of him which she so greatly admired, and her hands trembled so she was forced to stop. This was madness. They had lived side by side for weeks and she had managed to forget him as the lover who troubled her dreams and complicated her life. Except for that aborted night in Chatham, they had not so much as kissed. And, oh, how she longed to kiss that firm, warm mouth!
But no, she would not shame herself again by wanton display. Though her hands shook and her thighs were melting with desire, she would not allow herself to give in to the passion he stirred. There was only her pride left, as she’d told him before. If she gave that up he would think her a liar and weak-willed. He would tire of her, and then she …
“What are you thinking, Cassie?”
Cassandra looked up to find Merlyn squatting before her in the shallows. She doubted those few inches of water would have shielded any of him from her view had night not descended. But still she looked, as though she had the vision of a cat and could make out through the smoky haze of evening the shape of his long thighs, the slim hips, and the tantalizing dark triangle at the base of his belly.
Merlyn reached to touch her folded hands with one of his. “Join me.”
“It’s too cold,” Cassandra answered weakly, vividly aware of his hand on hers.
“Can you swim?” he asked suddenly.
Cassandra giggled like a little girl caught at mischief. “I should say no, but I can. The woman who kept our house when I was younger was from Torquay and she could swim like a fish. I begged her until she taught me.
Merlyn’s grasp on her hands increased. “Come on. There’s none to see but me, and I’ll never tell a soul.”
It was a sore temptation. For days she had walked, eaten, and slept in her clothes, stopping only to rinse her hands and face when water presented itself along their journey.
“Turn your back,” she said at last and rose to her feet. To her profound discomfort he also rose. When she spun away his deep laughter rolled over her. “Little prude,” he called softly and dove once more into deeper water.
A moment later Cassandra shed her sacque and, turning, ran quickly to the edge of the river. She was knee-deep before the icy cold of the water registered in her nerves and she squealed. But it was too late. Merlyn had watched her progress and leaped forward to grab her by the waist and drag her fully into the water.
Cassandra gasped at the stinging cold that shocked every nerve ending and made tight goose bumps of her skin.
“Stand up and be bathed like a good girl,” Merlyn instructed. Cassandra found her footing on the slippery bottom only a second before he released her and began applying the cake of soap to her shoulders.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in dismay.
“Bathing my wife, of course,” he replied amicably as his sudsy hands slid from her shoulder blades around to the front. He lathered her, fingers playing along her collarbones and then reaching lower to cup each full breast. “Why, you are freezing!” he exclaimed, feeling the hard pebbles her nipples made in his palms.
“Don’t—oh! I can bathe myself!” Cassandra cried in mortification and reached for the soap, but he held it over her head.
“No. This is a pleasure I reserve for myself. Oh no you don’t!” He caught her by the wrist. “You’re here now, and you’ll stay until I’ve finished. It’s not as if I haven’t done this before.”
Feeling part fool, part wanton, Cassandra stood quietly under his hands as he lathered every inch of her skin. Once when his hand slid intimately between her thighs she gasped, but he calmly washed each leg. Then he moved to her belly. The feather touch of his fingers here made her giggle, and before either of them realized it, they were laughing and struggling in the water like a pair of children.
At last Merlyn captured her hands by her sides and lifted her off her feet. His embrace clasped their bodies together from knee to shoulder. “Ah, Cassie, you feel so right,” Merlyn murmured just before his lips touched hers.
His lips were cold from the water but after only a moment they warmed as she drew breath from him and the hot honeyed taste of his mouth filled hers. She did not shrink from the womanly instinct that guided the gentle writhing of her body, and the springy hairs on his chest teased her naked breasts until she caught her breath in tiny quick gasps of pleasure.
Merlyn waded to the bank and sank down in the thick, slick grasses with Cassandra in his arms, and then they lay on the bank, his sweet heavy weight a blanket for her nakedness. In that moment there were only the two of them and the kisses they shared in mutual delight.
She wanted this, wanted it so badly the wanting became a physical ache. Would it not be perfect, she thought, if she could whisper in his ear, I love you? What would he say? Would he laugh at her or merely make love to her? What then? Once she yielded to that love burning in her heart and loins, would he want her after that?
Suddenly Merlyn released her and sat up. “I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t force you again.” He stood up abruptly and picked up his soaking-wet breeches. “Come. Ebba will be waiting for us.”
Confused and frustrated and hurt, Cassandra scrambled to her feet, too bewildered to give any thought to her nudity on the bank of the Avon. It was Merlyn who finally reached down and handed her her sacque. “You’ll catch cold,” he said stiffly.
Cassandra yanked it over her head so quickly she heard it tear, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t he tell that she was not being kissed against her will? Didn’t he know that she had been as eager as he? Had he been teasing her to see how she’d react? She tried in vain to see his expression but could tell nothing in the dark.
When she had collected her belongings she fell into step beside him, but she neither spoke nor would accept his arm about
her shoulders.
Merlyn moved a pace aside, all too aware of his nagging conscience. He had caught her off guard, without the protection of her good sense. The kisses were a game to her. That must be the reason she returned them so readily, he decided. She hadn’t realized that they would inflame him almost past reasoning. He didn’t want to frighten her. Damnation! He wanted her to learn to love him. Was that possible? He glanced at her. In profile he saw her chin was sunk nearly to her chest and he knew his misery was shared. It was his problem that he’d fallen in love with her. It was her problem that he had no intention of ever allowing her to leave him.
Ebba handed Cassandra a wicker hamper of cold ham, biscuits, and beer. “You may find Bath a more difficult place to earn a living than you think, and I’ll not have it said Merlyn Ross stole to feed his own when Ebba Lane was within hailing distance.”
Cassandra smiled at the woman who had in less than twenty-four hours’ time proved to be a friend. “You’re very fond of Merlyn, aren’t you?”
Ebba patted the younger girl’s shoulder. “Almost as much as you are, my dear. I don’t know what’s between you two young people, but you’ll work it right. Merlyn’s a different man. It’s been my constant prayer he’d find a woman to love. He’s found you at last.”
Cassandra looked away from the keen gray eyes observing her. “He’s never said he loves me,” she whispered in a guilty breath.
“Ah,” Ebba said with a smile. “So that’s it. You’re young. You’ve not known him long. He feels things more deeply than most men. Have you told him how you feel? Hm. I can see you haven’t, and yet you’ve a lovely son to show for the physical pleasure you share. You must find the courage to expose your feelings. If you’re waiting for him, you’ll never hear it. Pride can be a form of cowardice, Cassie. Think about it.”
Cassandra was thinking about it as Merlyn appeared in the doorway. “Where did those clothes come from?”
Merlyn brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his suit of dark green velvet. The coat fitted his shoulders so snugly it appeared to have been made for him. He flashed her a broad smile which showed strong white slightly uneven teeth.
“I’ve been to town. Left a wardrobe in care of Hugh a year ago. Do you care for the figured waistcoat?” He opened his coat to reveal a white silk waistcoat embroidered with trellis vines.
Cassandra looked dubiously at the transformation. His hair had been carefully combed and tied back with a flat satin ribbon, but the smooth raven color had not been touched by powder or curling tongs. One bright blue eye regarded her quizzically. He was so virilely handsome her heart ached with yearning, but “Who are you today?” was all she could think to say.
Merlyn’s smile cracked slightly but he did not react in any other way. “Merlyn Ross the actor. I’ve just returned from a tour abroad. I’ve brought with me a gently bred young lady who found herself in dire circumstances in Venice when her duenna suddenly died. Do you sing?”
“A little,” Cassandra answered.
“Delightful,” Merlyn returned in a sardonic tone. “I told Hugh you are an aspiring singer.”
“A whore, you mean,” she said angrily. “I’m tired beyond endurance of your games. Sometimes I am your lady wife, sometimes I’m your mistress, now I’m to be a theatrical trollop. Well, I won’t! I wish to be myself.”
Merlyn took this in good part, aware of Ebba’s eyes on them. “My love, you are my wife. Ebba knows, however, that news of my marriage would carry back to London within a week. I do not wish to draw attention to myself just yet.” The look he gave her said, Steady, Cassie, remember why we’re running.
Cassandra shook her head in resignation. “Am I to sing for my supper for Lord Mulberry?”
“A smile or two will do, I think,” Merlyn answered with a wink. “Ebba’s done a fine job on your gown. I only wish there’d been time to arrange for your wardrobe. I will simply say you were separated from your luggage when we docked.”
“Your ability to lie astounds me,” Cassandra said disapprovingly.
“I know. It’s a talent,” Merlyn replied blandly. “To Bath.”
Chapter Thirteen
It was shortly past seven A.M. when Cassandra descended the steps of Lord Mulberry’s town house in St. James’s Square and hastily found seclusion in the closed sedan chair which waited for her at the curb. When the two chairmen, one in back and one in front, hoisted her up to bear her down the steep incline of Gay Street toward the Queen’s Bath, she looked back. The honey-colored Bathstone walls shining in the early light consisted of twenty-five houses which boasted a Corinthian colonnade and elegant sash windows.
“I shall never tire of looking at it,” she whispered to herself. The architecture, she had been told by her host, was the work of John Wood and his equally talented son, as were the Hospital of St. John the Baptist, the Chandos Buildings, and the magnificent Prior Park. All of it was new, as bright and clean as her budding hopes for the future. What better place to begin a new life than in this fairy-tale city built on the grand design of ancient Rome? It made one believe dreaming was possible again.
Just then the bells of Bath Abbey pealed out a welcoming which always alerted the city to the arrival of important newcomers. Cassandra sat back to enjoy the ride, remembering the bells had rung little more than a week ago when she and Merlyn arrived in town. Lord Mulberry had paid the ringer’s fee on that occasion just as he had made a present to the city waits, who sang for them as they arrived in St. James’s Square. Until that day, she had given little thought to Merlyn’s prominence as an actor. Yet only yesterday, in the Pump Room, she had overheard two ladies discussing his last appearance on the London stage two years earlier.
“Quite as powerful an Othello as any,” the young woman had confided to her companion. “If not for that disfiguring patch, he might give Garrick a run for his money.”
Cassandra smiled to herself as she rearranged the stiff folds of her bathing garment made of yellow canvas. The last ten days had been like paradise. If not for the fact that she missed Adam with an aching that matched the pain of her milk-swollen breasts, all would be perfect.
“I will ask Merlyn to take me to Ebba tonight,” she said to herself.
The thought of Merlyn made her smile momentarily waver. She had not missed Lord Mulberry’s lingering gaze upon her when Merlyn introduced them. He thought them lovers, no doubt. The fact that they did not insist upon bedrooms on the same floor had not quite erased that look, but in the days following it was tempered by speculation of a new sort that made her equally uncomfortable. She did not care so much what Lord Mulberry thought as much as she cared that Merlyn not be embarrassed. For that reason, she saw little of Merlyn beyond their formal meetings in the Pump Room after the daily ritual of the baths.
The separation had given her time to think, time to reflect on Ebba’s words and to understand the truth of the many conflicting feelings that had made a maze of her mind and a mystery of her actions even to herself. Just the night before, as she lay in bed remembering the vivid beauty of Merlyn’s eyes, she had come to a momentous decision. She was glad that it was reached in the quiet solitude of this span of days, far from the mercurial hypnotic presence of the man it concerned.
“Here you are, then, miss,” one of the chairmen called as her chair was set down before the Queen’s Bath.
The metallic odor of the natural hot springs water wafted into the street to meet her, making her wrinkle her nose.
A few minutes later she was wading waist-deep in hot water that wilted her linen cap and tinged her cheeks with blood. The long sleeves of her gown dragged in the water, but the voluminous skirt billowed about her like an umbrella so that no part of it clung to her body to reveal her shape. All about her women laughed and chatted in the communal bath, but she held herself apart. The attack in Chatham was fresh in her mind. The marquess was not a man to give up easily. Her narrow escape would only intensify his determination to find the
m. It was for that reason, also, that she refrained from accepting Lord Mulberry’s offer to secure a maid for her. Until the swelling of her breasts disappeared, she feared the conclusions that would be drawn from them.
She did not linger long in the bath. The water, though lower in temperature than that of the King’s Bath, which both Merlyn and Lord Mulberry preferred, made her sleepy and dull-witted, and she needed every wit sharp to face Merlyn. As she ascended a private stairway leading from the water pool she was met by two pleasant-faced women who served as guides. One unfastened her canvas gown while the other flung a flannel nightgown over her head, keeping her covered at all times. The women never saw their customers unclothed.
When Cassandra reached a dry step, slippers were placed on her feet and then she was led into a slip where a great fire blazed. As she sat in silence to steam dry, she plotted what her first move should be. She must find a private moment with Merlyn. A slow womanly smile spread across her damp face. No, it must be longer than a moment. If her desire was granted, they would need the uninterrupted hours of a night.
Thirty minutes later, wrapped in a woolen blanket, she reentered her sedan chair, which had been brought around for this purpose, and then her chairmen appeared, slipped their staves in place, and bore her back to St. James’s Square.
Cassandra did not linger in her warm woolen cocoon but quickly donned the loose muslin gown laid out on her bed. She was to meet Merlyn and Lord Mulberry in the Pump Room precisely at nine A.M. When the last of her heavy dark hair was piled up on her head and a bonnet secured beneath her chin with its ribbon, she drank a cup of hot chocolate and nibbled a biscuit before turning and hurrying back downstairs.
“Really, Hugh. You press me unfairly about the girl. She’s nothing more than one of my good works.”
Hugh Mulberry, Earl of Glastonbury, eyed his walking companion dispassionately. “You’ve done no good works that I’m aware of, Ross.”
