Darling Beast (Maiden Lane) (15 page)

He didn’t know how she felt about that kiss—or if she’d let him kiss her again, but he was certainly going to try. He had lost time to make up—much of life itself to live.
He’d spent four years in limbo, simply existing, while others found lovers and friends, even started families.

He wanted to live again.

But as he neared the theater he heard first the sound of voices raised—and then a male voice shouting.

Apollo broke into a run.

He burst from the trees to find a slight man in a purple suit and a white wig standing intimidatingly close to Lily. She wore a shawl over her red dress as if she’d been prepared for their stroll. The two stood in the clearing outside the theater.

“—
told
you I needed it,” he was saying, his face thrust into hers. Apollo could see spittle flying from his mouth. “You’ll never sell it on your own, so don’t even try it.”

“It’s my work, Edwin,” she replied to the lout, bravely enough, but there was a waver in her voice that made Apollo see red.

“Who are… you?” he demanded, advancing on the two of them, hands clenching and unclenching.

The man swung around and blinked at the sight of Apollo as if he hadn’t heard him draw near.

“Who’m
I
? Who… who… are
you
, you great ox?” he asked, mocking Apollo’s halting speech.

He didn’t much mind that—he’d had far worse than verbal jeers in Bedlam—but he didn’t like the way Lily’s face had grown pale at the sight of him. “Caliban, please.” She gripped her hands together as if to keep from wringing them. “Can you come back in a bit? Perhaps half an hour or so?”

Her voice was too low, too controlled, as if she was afraid of setting the man off. As if she’d set him off before and hadn’t liked the consequences.

“You know this…
oaf
?” The man spat the word at her, then threw back his head in cruel laughter. “I vow, Lil, your taste in bedmates has come down. ’Fore long you’ll be lifting your skirts for common
porters
, if this is the sort—”

The end of his vicious rant ended in a satisfying squawk as Apollo backhanded him. The other man staggered and fell on his arse.

“No, don’t hurt him!” Lily cried, and Apollo hated to think she cared for this man.

“I won’t,” he assured her in a level tone. He stared at the sputtering rogue for a moment and made up his mind. “But neither will I… stand by while he… abuses you.” So saying, he picked up the man and tossed him over his shoulder. “Wait here.”

The man made a sort of moan and Apollo hoped he wouldn’t toss his accounts down his back. He’d bathed and changed into a fairly clean shirt before coming to see Lily.

Pivoting, he marched toward the dock, the man still over his shoulder.

“Caliban!”

He ignored her calls. He didn’t really care who this ass was—as long as he was nowhere near Lily or Indio.

“Put—” The knave had to gasp for breath as Apollo leaped a fallen log, jostling the man’s stomach against his shoulder. When he could draw breath again he swore foully. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“No.”

“I’ll have your head.” The other man gulped and tried to kick.

So Apollo let the man roll off his shoulder and onto
the ground. They were far enough away from the theater anyway by this point.

The villain stared up at him, pale with rage, his wig fallen to the side. His own hair was nearly black and cropped short. “I know people—people who can and will cut off your blasted cock.”

“I have no… doubt.” Threats were two a penny. Apollo straddled the prone dandy and leaned down into his face, intimidating him as he’d dared to do to Lily. “Don’t come… back until… you can talk… to her with a civil tongue.”

He nimbly avoided the kick aimed at his groin and left the knave there on the ground. Lily, after all, hadn’t sounded too pleased when he’d left.

Nor was she looking very happy when he got back. She was still in the clearing, pacing.

She whirled on him as soon as he appeared. “What did you do to him?”

He shrugged, watching her. “Dumped him… on the ground… like the rubbish… he is.” His throat ached, but he ignored it.

“Oh.” She seemed to deflate a bit at that, only to puff back up a second later. “Well, you shouldn’t have interfered. It wasn’t any of your business.”

This was not how he’d hoped to spend the afternoon.

“Perhaps… I wanted it to… be my business.” He approached her cautiously as he spoke.

“It’s just…” She waved one hand, obviously frustrated. “You just
can’t
. He’s…”

Apollo cocked his head. “Indio’s father?”

“What?” She turned and stared. “No! Whatever made you think that? Edwin’s my brother.”

“Ah.” The knot that had been pulled tight in his chest ever since she’d started defending the dandy loosened. Family was another matter. One couldn’t choose family. “Then he… should speak… to his sister more carefully.”

She screwed up her face rather adorably. “He’s not himself. He lost quite a bit of money and he’s anxious about it.”

He caught her hand and tugged gently as he turned down a path into the garden—away from where he’d left Edwin. “I see. And this is… your fault?”

“No, of course not.” She frowned, but let herself be led, so he counted that as a contest won. “It’s just that he makes money from my plays.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“Well, they’re published under his name, you see,” she said, peering down at her steps. She didn’t seem to notice that he still had hold of her hand, and he felt no need to bring it to her attention. Her slender fingers were cool in his. “He’s… well, he’s better able to sell the plays than I.”

“Why?”

She kicked a stone in the path. “He has better acquaintances. Better friends.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “He just is better at it, is all.”

He was silent, but felt confused. How did “better friends” make it easier to publish a play?

“My father was a porter,” she finally muttered, sounding faintly ashamed. “A common porter. Apparently he often fetched things for the actors in the theater where my mother was appearing. Costumes and props and a cooked hen for dinner and whatever else needed moving or fetching from one place to another. Oh, you know what a porter is.”

He squeezed her hand gently instead of replying.

She broke off a twig from a tree as they passed. “Edwin’s father was a lord—well, a lord’s son, which, compared to a porter, is much the same thing. Mama said my father couldn’t even read his own name. But he was handsome, so there’s that, I suppose.”

“You…” His damnable throat tried to close, but he forced the words out. “You did not… know… your father?”

She shook her head, glancing at him apologetically. “Mama had a great many lovers, I’m afraid, and none ever stayed long.” She inhaled and shook herself. “Anyway, Edwin’s been very helpful, taking my plays and finding where to sell them. He keeps some of the money and gives all the rest to me.”

“How much?”

“What?”

“You write… the plays—very good plays, I’ll… warrant—and he trots off… and sells them. How… much does he… pocket for such… hard work?”

She stiffened and attempted to pull her fingers from his.

He didn’t let her.

She glared, her lichen-green eyes sparking. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

He stopped and faced her. They were nearly at the pond, at the site where his oak had toppled. He’d found the lead branch broken from the fall and ordered a new tree, but it had not yet arrived. “How much?”

She held his gaze defiantly for a moment more and he couldn’t help but admire the way the late-afternoon sun’s rays made a nimbus around her face of the fine hairs escaping her coiffure.

Her eyes dropped. “Twenty-five percent.”

“Twenty-five percent.” His voice was flat, but inside he was horrified. “Does he know… you don’t have… acting work?”

“Yes, he knows, that was partly what we argued about.” She’d raised their joined hands to her chest level and was examining his fingers, probably appalled at the ingrained dirt. “I told him that I wanted him to take only twenty percent. But Edwin isn’t always very practical when it comes to money, you see.”

Apollo would bet his right hand that Edwin could be entirely practical when it came to his
own
money. “How do you… even know he’s… giving you the proper… amount?”

She looked up, startled, from his hand. “Edwin wouldn’t lie to me. You must understand.” Now she was holding his hand between her own two. “He… well, Mama drank gin, you see, and by the time I was born she was no longer very much in demand, either in the theater or with men, and it was hard for her.” She ducked her head, studying his fingers, spreading them against her own, comparing their lengths. His hand dwarfed hers. “Very hard. And later there was Maude, but when I was very small, all I had was Mama and Edwin. He made sure I had a place to sleep—for often we moved, from theater to theater or even from one rental room to another. He made sure I had food and clothes and taught me to read and write.” She curled her fingers into the spaces between his, tightening them as if she wouldn’t ever let go. “I owe him… everything, really.”

“Perhaps you… do,” he said softly, for he knew what it was to be beholden to someone who is unable to fully
reciprocate one’s devotion. “But do you… owe him Indio’s life… as well?”

She looked up at him, her brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“Indio needs… food and clothes and… a place to sleep, doesn’t he?”

She nodded.

“Naturally… he does,” Apollo said. “And how… is he to have… all those things and… more if you let… your brother leech… from you?”

“I just…” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to hurt him. I know Edwin is fickle and cruel at times, but he’s my
brother
. I love him.”

“How can you not?” he replied, and brought their twined hands to his lips, kissing each of her fingertips one by one.

When he raised his head she was watching him in wonder. “I don’t know you at all. First I thought you a simpleton. Then you couldn’t speak. And now you can, but you
won’t
.” She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips along his jaw, her touch soft and searching, more intimate than any kiss on the lips. “I don’t know you, but I want to. Can you let me in a little?”

He closed his eyes. This was playing with fire. “What do you wish to know?”

What did she wish to know?
That was easy: Lily wanted to know who Caliban truly was—a name, an identity,
something
to place him in the world in relation to her.

But he couldn’t answer that, she knew, so she started with a simpler inquiry.

“You seem to know about family.” The sun was beginning to set and even with the smell of burnt wood, the garden was a magical place. Birds had begun their evening song around them in the golden rays. “Do you have family?”

He nodded. “I have… a sister.”

She smiled up at him, into his muddy-brown eyes surrounded by such beautiful, lush lashes. She was relieved
that he’d answered that much—hadn’t rejected her question out of hand. “Older or younger?”

A corner of his wide mouth cocked up. “The exact same… age as I.”

“A twin!” She grinned in delight. “What’s her name?”

He shook his head gently.

But she wasn’t so easily disappointed now that he’d let her in a little. “Very well. Do you like her?”

“Very much.” He paused as if searching for words. “She is… the dearest thing… to me… in the world.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, how sweet.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You make me… sound a little boy.”

“I don’t mean to,” she said earnestly. “I think one’s family, the people one keeps close to oneself, are very important. I don’t think I could like a man who didn’t value others.”

“And… do you like me?”

She wagged her finger at him. “I’m not so easily lured as all that. Now. Were you born in London?” She turned, swinging their hands as she meandered down one of the paths.

“No.”

She pouted. “In a city?”

“No.”

Her eyes widened in exasperation. “In England?”

“Yes, I am… an Englishman,” he said, and then relented. “I was… born in the country.”

“North or south?”

“South.”

“By the coast?”

“No.” He slid an amused glance her way. “There were…
farmlands. And a pond… quite nearby. My… sister and I learned to… swim in it.”

“And you had a mother and a father.” She looked down at the charred path because most people
did
have both a mother and a father growing up—just not she, it seemed.

“Yes,” he answered gently, “though… they’re both dead now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shrugged.

“Were you close?” she asked too fast, her words running together. “Did you have a happy childhood with a father who worked and brought home money and a mother who mended your socks?”

“Not… precisely,” he replied. “My childhood was happy… enough, but my mother… was often sickly and… my father…” He took a deep breath and let it out in a gusty sigh. “My father was… mad.”

She stopped short—or tried to.

He tugged her hand to keep her strolling beside him. “It’s not… as terrible as it… sounds. He wasn’t violent… or awful to my sister… and me, or… even our mother. He was excitable. Sometimes… he would stay awake… for days on end, frantically planning… various schemes—though they all came… to naught. He’d hie away… from the house for a week… or more and we… were never sure where… he went. Just that when… he came home his pockets… would be empty and he’d… be exhausted. Then he would sleep… for a full day and perhaps spend… a fortnight abed… taking his meals there. And… then he’d… arise one day and… be off again.”

He shrugged. “I thought… when I was very small… that all boys had fathers like… mine.”

She was silent then, because there didn’t seem much to say. They walked in companionable silence as the sun began to paint the sky in shades of scarlet and bright yellow and orange.

“Is she alive still, your sister?” she at last asked, almost lazily.

“Oh, yes.”

“And you see her?” She darted a sideways glance, but he merely shook his head and smiled.

Damn.
“Do you have other family, then? Aunts and uncles and, oh, cousins, I suppose? Is it a big family you’re from?”

“Not big… but I have some… relations,” he replied. “Though… I know none of them well. My… father’s madness drove… him apart from his own… father and the rest of the… family followed… suit, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I really… don’t know. I certainly… never saw them as a child.”

She nodded. “And now that you’re a man? Have you tried to talk to them?”

He squeezed her hand and then relaxed, so swiftly she couldn’t tell if the motion was in reaction to her question or not. “No.”

She heaved a great sigh and tried another tack. “How did you come to know Mr. Harte?”

He laughed at that. “I met May—
Harte
… in a tavern… when we were both barely… of age.”

She did stop then, and made him turn to face her. “What was that word you almost said? May? Is that his first name?”

He actually looked guilty at that. “He’ll… kill me.”

“What?”

“It’s a… great secret,” he warned.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

She thought he wouldn’t answer her. But he pulled her close and folded her hands on her breast, over her heart. “Do you promise… never, ever to tell?”

“Yes.”

He bent, putting his mouth to her ear, so close she could feel the brush of his lips. “Harte… isn’t his name. It’s… Asa Makepeace.”

She jerked back, mouth agape in shock. “What?”

He shrugged, looking amused. “It’s true.”

“But whyever did he change his name?”

“For the same… reason, I expect, that you”—he tapped a finger on her nose—“changed yours.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Because
Stump
sounded like a dead tree and he needed a witty name for the stage?”

“Well, perhaps not…
entirely
the same reason,” he allowed. “I understand his family… doesn’t approve of the theater.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense,” she said, because it did. “Families are very odd things, after all.”

“Aren’t they indeed,” he breathed, and then he kissed her.

His mouth moved on hers with exquisite slowness, teasing her lips apart, sliding his tongue along the inside of her bottom lip. He caught her chin in the V between his thumb and fingers, holding her steady for his pleasure.

“Lily,” he breathed as he nipped at her mouth. “Lily.”

And her name, spoken in his broken voice—so sure, so tender, nonetheless—had never sounded so beautiful before.

She stood on tiptoe and twined her arms about his broad shoulders, trying to get closer, and felt a moment’s frustration that she couldn’t. A whimper escaped her and then he bent and simply grasped her around the waist. He lifted her easily, as if she were no more than Indio’s little wooden boat, and set her high against his chest so that she might tilt her head down to continue their kiss. Such casual strength should’ve frightened her. Should’ve made her pause and think.

But all it did was arouse her further.

Her bodice was crushed against his great chest, the slopes of her upper breasts pressed with each inhalation against the coarse cloth of his waistcoat, and she wanted… wanted something.

It’d been such a very long time since she’d been with a man. The emotions, the heat between them, made her breathless, and it was her own lack of control that finally sobered her.

“Wait,” she gasped, breaking away, pressing one palm to his chest. “I…”

He licked lazily at the corner of her mouth, not demanding, but seducing, which was, in this case, far more dangerous. She moaned a little and then got herself under control and pulled back.

“Put me down,” she said in her most haughty voice. Had she not been so very breathless, it would’ve come off rather well.

“You’re sure?” he drawled. There was a slash of color high on each of his craggy cheekbones and his eyes were lidded with sensuality.

Was she?
“Quite,” she said, much more firmly than she actually felt.

He sighed heavily and let her slide—
slowly
—down his chest.

“Erm… thank you,” she said, trying and probably failing to regain some of her dignity. She brushed down her skirts, looking anywhere but at him. “We should return to the theater. I sent Maude and Indio out for meat pies for our supper and they should be back soon. You’re invited, of course.”

“I’m honored… to accept,” he said as formally as if she were the Queen.

She nodded and began to set off before she realized that they were in a part of the garden she’d never seen before. “Where are we?”

“The heart,” he said, his voice low and rasping. “The very… heart of my future garden… the center of the maze.”

She shivered at his words. This place didn’t look any different from anywhere else in the garden, but garden hearts, she supposed, like human hearts, could be disguised.

“I can’t see it,” she said.

He took a step toward her and turned her to face the same way as he, her back against his chest. “Here,” he said, wrapping his arms over her shoulders to hold her hands. “There’ll be a folly… of some sort right here… beneath our feet. A fountain or… waterfall or statue. Benches for lovers to sit and… kiss. The entrance will be over here”—he pointed to a space to the right—“and the maze… will wind all around us… like an embrace.”

Slowly he turned with her, tracing with his outstretched hand his imaginary maze.

“You have so much faith,” she whispered.

She felt him shrug behind her. “It’s there already… just waiting for the right person… to find it and bring it alive,” he said softly in her ear. “A maze… is eternal, you know, once discovered.”

She shivered at that and pulled away, turning to give him a bright smile. “Indio will be waiting impatiently for his supper.”

He nodded, but didn’t return her smile. “Of course.”

“I don’t understand how you can see so much in what is only destruction and debris now,” she commented as they turned back toward the theater. She was very careful to keep from brushing against him as they walked, for she was afraid that if they touched a spark might be lit. She felt as if a fine tension ran along her skin, making her nervously aware of his every movement.

He shrugged beside her. “I see it in my mind’s eye, complete… and wonderful. It’s only a matter of… planting and moving… to reveal what’s already there.” He glanced at her fondly. “Really, ’tisn’t such a mysterious thing.”

She had a certain suspicion that he was talking about something else as well.

He coughed rather harshly, and she looked at him quickly. “How is your throat?”

“Sore,” he replied. “But… that is to be expected… after so long unused.”

“I’m very glad you can speak again.”

He smiled at her finally and then they were at the theater.

Daffodil scampered to greet them, closely followed by Indio with the news that he and Maude had brought back two large pies and they must wash at once to have them while they were still hot.

Thus instructed, Lily and Caliban washed by the old water barrel.

“Mama,” Indio said as they sat, “the wherryman had only
two
teeth and he could spit
ever
so far.”

And he proceeded to tell them all about the wherryman’s unusual and rather disgusting skill.

Caliban expressed suitable interest in this dining conversation and Lily was content to watch the play between the two males. Even Maude unbent enough to give her opinion on long-distance spitting and the number of teeth one usually found in the average wherryman.

Lily almost forgot her nervous tension until after supper, when Maude was clearing the dishes with Indio’s help.

Caliban drew Lily out the theater door, quietly closing it behind them.

“See?” he said, pointing to the North Star. “In another year… or two, you’ll no longer… be able to glimpse… the stars from the garden. The lights… and fireworks will obscure them.”

“So I should treasure the wildness now?” she asked whimsically.

“Perhaps,” he said, drawing her close. “Or… just be glad that you… have this time, hard though… it seems at the moment. After all, most of London has not this… grand view… of the night sky. Only we two.”

“As if we have a world of our own.”

He smiled right before he kissed her, and she knew somehow he felt the same. They were a universe apart, Adam and Eve, in a garden that wasn’t quite Eden.

And then she thought no more for many long minutes as he leisurely kissed her, mouth opened wide over hers as
if he would consume her, meld with her and make them one being under the starlit night sky.

When at last he drew back she felt a little dazed, almost off-balance, as if the world had tilted a bit on its axis.

“Tomorrow,” he said, walking backward into the dark. “Shall I… show you the secret island… in the pond?”

“If you must,” she said, the tremble in her voice betraying her discomposure.