Midsummer Moon (6 page)

He stopped, so abruptly that Merlin tangled in her skirts and would have fallen if he hadn't kept the punishing hold on her arm. “Theo is in exactly the same health as you left him. Ragley's here to marry us, of course."

"Marry us.” She shook her head. “Marry us to who?"

"
To each other,
” he shouted.

Merlin scrunched away from him. “M-marry? But—"

"It's a little late for buts.” He pushed her through the door, and then halted in the dim-lit passage. Merlin exhaled as he let her go and stood rubbing her arms, afraid to look up at him while he was in this temper. The change from pleasure to persecution left her numb, disoriented. What had she done to make him so angry?

As if to further confuse her, he cupped her face and tilted it upward, bending to press his forehead against hers. “Don't ever do that,” he said in a voice that shook, a voice far different from his earlier tone. “Merlin, don't ever scare me like that again."

"You broke my kite,” she said tremulously.

He tucked a trailing strand of dark hair behind her ear. She waited for an answer to her accusation, for a reason, but he seemed not to have heard her. His gaze had wandered downward to linger at her lips, and his fingers brushed across her cheek with a feather touch. Merlin drew in a shaky breath just an instant before his mouth closed softly on hers.

Warmth seemed to slide down over her like satin, leaving her knees feeling too tenuous to hold. She leaned on him. He supported her, held her easily against his solid shape. She could feel the muscles in his thighs grow taut. For an instant the lightning of the night before flared between them, silver-hot, and then he broke away. “I don't think,” he whispered ruefully against her temple, “that I'll regret this so much. I think that it might suit me very well."

Merlin dragged her heavy eyelids open. “What?” she said in a hazy voice.

He gave her a gentle push forward. “Come. The bishop's been waiting four hours."

Their entrance to the dining room was heralded with a thump and a clang as Ransom knocked over an abandoned bellows which collapsed in a heap at his feet.

A tall, elderly man in white stockings and a black frock unfolded from his chair, but Merlin had eyes only for Thaddeus's bald head, gleaming above a blood-stained bandage. “Thaddeus! Whatever on earth happened?” She pulled out of the duke's grasp and rushed to the manservant. “Oh, no, did that wretched scaffolding of mine in the barn fall on you? I'm so sorry, Thaddeus, I know I promised to pull it down, and I was going to, I truly was, but you see I had a splendid notion this afternoon, and I was afraid that I'd lose what it was, you know, if I didn't put something together just then, and—well, you see ... I suppose I ... just forgot."

"Aye, that you did,” Thaddeus said, pushing her away as she tried to pat his shoulder. “Forgot it the last six months, you have, but that ain't what crowned me! Some bleedin’ Frenchie, the duke here says"—he waved a hand toward Ransom—” snuck up on me like the creepy little snake he was. And I'm sorry, Miss Merlin, that I am, but he did make a wee mess of your room."

"It isn't important now,” Ransom said sharply. “Bishop, may I present Miss Merlin Lambourne?"

Merlin blinked at the thin cleric. He was observing her with a sad, faintly accusing gravity, as if she had just died and been refused admission to Heaven. She managed a curtsy—one that must have squeaked from all the rust on it, she feared.

The bishop inclined his head. “It is most gratifying to perform the Lord's service and be of comfort to you in this moment of darkness, Miss Lambourne. I trust you will find strength in knowing that I bring His holy blessing to bestow upon your union."

Merlin made no sense of that. She glanced quickly at the duke. His mouth curved into a thin line of annoyance, but he said nothing.

"High time.” Thaddeus thumped the table and stood up, tottering only a little. “Me an’ the parson agree on that. Let's hie on over to Theo's room and tie the knot."

Merlin felt Ransom's hand beneath her elbow, turning her toward the door. She set her feet frantically. “Tie the knot! Thaddeus, are you mad? You don't really suppose I'm going to marry anyone!"

"Well, o’ course ye are, Miss Merlin. Why not?"

She struggled for an answer. “Because I can't. I've never known anyone who was married!"

"Well, I ‘spect the duke here can tell ye all about it.” Thaddeus arched his brows. “What he ain't managed to get across already."

Ransom's fingers tightened on her elbow. “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” he said coldly, “or you may find you don't care for your new master."

"Hmmpf. Ye can just lay them hackles, Mr. Big Dog. ‘Tweren't my doin’ she's got to be married, no sir. And she don't understand a word of it no how, that's plain as a pitchfork."

The bishop cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should speak privately with Miss Lambourne. I feel that, indeed, she may not recognize the gravity of her spiritual position."

The grip on Merlin's arm tightened until it hurt. “I hope I made myself clear, Bishop. No blame whatsoever can be attached to Miss Lambourne. Her ‘spiritual position’ is perfect innocence."

"Well put, my lord duke.” The bishop fixed Ransom with a disapproving gaze. “You must certainly bear the entire weight of this incident on your own conscience. Still, as a friend of your family, and of your late grandsire, I hope you will permit me to say that Miss Lambourne might benefit from guidance—other than your own—in such a delicate situation as this."

Merlin could feel the duke's fingers tremble and bit her lip in apprehension. For a moment she feared he would begin shouting again—there was that much rage and more in the braising pressure of his hand. But instead he let go of her. She heard him take a deep breath and exhale it slowly. He touched her shoulder, turning her toward him, and brushed her cheek with a brief caress. “All right. I'll be waiting, Wiz. Outside with Thaddeus."

Little good such gentle endearments had done him, Ransom thought bitterly, staring upward at the midnight shadows of the canopy. She might have been with him now, in this same bed where he'd loved her before, if Ragley hadn't made such a cock-up of the whole thing.

He must have botched it royally, the pontificating old bumbler. Ransom could think of no other reason why he was sleeping here alone while Merlin had retired to her own bedroom, with Thaddeus to guard the door and the bishop in the next room down the hall to preserve what was left of propriety.

And worse, for the ancient cleric to have called Ransom on the carpet—Ransom himself, by God, as if he were some common parishioner—and demand to know if he had a proper affection for this female he proposed to marry. If he
loved
her, for pity's sake! The old warhorse of Westminster Abbey was lapsing into senility. Love her! How the bleeding Hell could Ransom possibly love her? He'd only laid eyes on her the day before.

Oh, he was willing to do his duty, all right. More than willing, in all honesty. He was growing tired of the inconveniences of courtesans and mistresses, of the jealousies and expenses and petty tantrums that had to be endured in order to meet his physical needs. He'd been less and less inclined to tolerate them lately, choosing to spend his time in London at Whitehall instead of at Madame's—undoubtedly why he'd been so disgustingly susceptible to that thrice-damned aphrodisiac.

The worst of it was, Ransom was as hungry for her as he'd been under the influence of her cursed potion. He was having a devil of a time getting control of himself. In fact, he was failing utterly. He lay there burning and ready for her, and thanked God that Thaddeus and the bishop were such a pair of old maids as to insist on chaperoning her themselves. Otherwise, Ransom had a clear and humiliating knowledge of just how long he would have held out against his own desire.

He threw the bedclothes back and got up. He wanted to pace, but the hard contact of his bare toe with a carved chest effectively banished that notion. He sucked in a sharp breath and fumed at Thaddeus, who had left Ransom barely enough candle to get undressed and into bed—probably on the theory that he'd stay there more readily without a light to guide him elsewhere.

A thin shaft of moonlight poured between the curtains drawn across the bay window. Ransom pulled the musty damask aside slightly and took an exploratory look out the open casement. Ground fog filled the yard, creating a billowy floor just a foot or two below the window. It was an illusion, he knew—the distance to the pavement was undoubtedly greater than he'd like to know about—but the appearance satisfied his private discomfort. His secret fear of heights was something that he lived with—if not exactly comfortably, at least without undue agony. He had contrived to arrange his life so that the problem had faded to the status of a minor nuisance. It had been months since he'd even thought of it, and he dismissed it now, feeling only a brief twinge of uneasiness thicken in the back of his throat.

He stood with his arms spread above him, leaning on the curtain rod. A light breeze caressed his unclothed body. To his chagrin, the night air did nothing to cool the heat in his veins.

She was, he thought, the most baffling and entrancing creature he'd ever had the misfortune to meet. None of his seasoned strategies worked with her, not reason or temptation or force. Not mild force, in any event. He had no doubt he could break her if he cared to do so, but his mind passed over the possibility with distaste. Unsentimental he had to be, but only the extremity of life or death would bring him to apply that kind of pressure.

He glanced back into the dim room, unwilling to return to the suggestive depths of the great bed. With a soft grunt, he swung himself into the padded window seat, settling his back against the stone wall. The curtain fell into place, enclosing him in a cool space between the fabric and the glass.

He tilted his head back, contemplating the irony of the situation. The most eligible widower in His Majesty's domain: rich, titled, powerful, and more than passably attractive, if his female admirers were to be believed—flatly refused, on account of a broken kite.

It should have been amusing. Ransom tried to summon a laugh, but it came out more of a snarl. The bishop had regaled her with the wages of sin and social stigma, Thaddeus had called her a bird-witted fool, and Ransom had used every appeal from sweet whispered compliments to one highly salacious kiss, which made him groan and shift restlessly just to remember. And she had taken it all with that bewildered slow blink of hers, and that fingertip resting on her full lower lip until he thought he would burn to cinders if he could not take advantage of the soft invitation.

All for naught. She'd listened, and then turned to Ransom and asked why he'd broken her kite.

He'd made the fatal mistake, then, and still he did not know what it was. He'd apologized for the kite: he was sorry, he'd been afraid for her, it had just been a moment of clumsiness, and it was only a kite, after all, was it not? He would give her a hundred better ones.

"It was an experiment,” she'd said gravely.

"A kite?” Perhaps he'd allowed just a hint of skepticism to creep into his voice.

"Yes,” she said. “Now I know how to fly."

Humoring her, he'd judged it best to say nothing to that. And after a moment, giving him a long, deep look from those mist-colored eyes, which seemed unexpectedly to penetrate to the very heart of him, she'd said, “I cannot marry you."

Ransom clenched his jaw and leaned forward, burying his face in his arm. It was the failure that galled him. He did not like to fail, and the state of his physical passions made this debacle a particular torture. He'd not felt so hurt, so angry and ill-used, since he'd been falsely accused of stealing Latin noun declensions from his younger brother's phrasebook.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Lord, but he was tired and frustrated, to become as sensitive as a schoolboy over the befuddled Miss Merlin Lambourne. He tried to relax, to clear his mind, but the moment he drifted toward sleep he began to dream of Latin grammar, and of kites that tangled on the ground and would not fly.

He wrenched his eyes open on a low moan. The room was quiet. Outside, the moon had set. The fog had risen, blotting out the night sky. He nodded off again, this time to a nightmare of flying, on a kite that took him ever higher, horrifyingly high, so high that he could not even imagine the ground, until suddenly the kite dissolved and he began to fall—his worst fear, his personal terror—and he had no breath to scream, no hope—

He came awake in a shivering sweat. The diamond-shaped windowpanes were cool and hard against his face. He lay against the glass and metal network, holding his breath while his heart thudded in his ears. At first the other noise seemed part of that, only a distant echo of the sound of his own night fear. He exhaled slowly.

As he took his first conscious breath, his mind and body snapped to full awareness. He froze. The pounding of his blood rang in his head, but it could not conceal the sound he heard.

Footsteps.

There was someone else in the room, and the still air was laden with the smell of ether.

It was the sickening-sweet smell that penetrated Merlin's consciousness first. In some dreaming, deep corner of her mind, she recognized it from long ago days in her great-uncle's laboratory. She turned over with a groan and lifted her head, mumbling, “Uncle Dorian?"

Darkness and silence answered her. Awareness prickled, pulling her from the edge of sleep. She struggled up with her hands braced in the depths of the down mattress. “Uncle..."

It came to her suddenly that Uncle Dorian was long passed away. The chemical odor burned in her nose, nauseatingly strong. She fumbled for the counterpane in the pitch blackness and threw the bedclothes back.

The rude impact against her face caught her completely by surprise. Her scream choked into a gagging whimper under the saturated cloth and strong hands that forced her mouth and nose into the strangling muzzle. She kicked out, once and hard. Her foot connected with yielding flesh. The answering grunt of pain seemed distant as thickness smothered her thoughts and dragged her down, until she was lost in emptiness and the stench of ether.

When she came to awareness, she was afraid to open her eyes. Sickness pressed in her throat, aggravated by the rolling motion that rocked her body from side to side in a warm cradle. She lay as still as possible, glad of the firm support that at least held and protected her from the worst of the motion. As the nausea receded, her mind struggled to shake off the lingering effects of the ether. She pieced together the movement and the sound of horse's hooves and the rhythmic squeak of wheels and decided that she was in a carriage.

With a sense of detachment, she concluded that she had been kidnapped. For a while, it seemed unimportant. It was enough to overcome the last waves of sickness and meditate vaguely on the notion that her abductors were rather thoughtful to press a cool, sweet-smelling cloth to her forehead.

Eventually, though, she began to come to her full senses. Detachment tightened into a knot of dismay. It had happened, just as the duke had warned her—the enemies of her country were dragging her off against her will, to be forced to work on their nefarious projects, or to be tortured, or to have her throat cut, or ... or ... What had Ransom said would be worse than that? She couldn't remember, but she was sure it must be horrible. She stifled a moan and peeked beneath her lashes at her surroundings.

It was daylight, the gray and watery sun barely, illuminating the elegant red satin interior of the carriage. She was being supported in a surprisingly comfortable position across one seat. The opposite seat was occupied by another victim, a man laid out bound and gagged, still unconscious, his bruised and bleeding head lolling helplessly with the motion of the coach. The sight of his injury made Merlin cravenly glad that she had not had the chance to put up serious resistance to her captors.

The bound man was no one Merlin knew. She hoped that Thaddeus and the duke and Bishop Ragley had escaped safely. The fear that they had not made her go weak and trembling and awful inside. She lay thinking warm, miserable thoughts of how they had only wanted to take care of her, especially Ransom, how his shouting at her had only been concern, and she had been too stupid and obstinate to listen.

Oh, but she should have listened to him! He would be beside himself when he found out she'd really been abducted. The thought of how furious and frantic he might be made a hopeful lump rise in her throat. Perhaps he would rescue her. She would forgive him for shouting at her if he did. She would even forgive him for breaking her kite.

She began rehearsing suitably grateful and contrite phrases under her breath, such as, “Mr. Duke, I can't thank you enough for saving my life, and I know you didn't mean to ruin my experiment.” Or, “It really doesn't matter that you made fun of my flying machine, Mr. Duke, not since you risked your life to rescue me.” Or, in response to his abject apology for destroying her kite, “It's nothing, Ransom. Really it doesn't matter. I can make another one, I think. Yes, yes, I can, I'm sure of it. Almost sure of it. Oh, Ransom—” She sniffed, suddenly overcome by the realization that most probably she would never see Ransom or Thaddeus or Theo or her flying machine again. “Oh, Ransom,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry I didn't listen to you."

"Are you indeed?” he said. “I'm bloody glad to hear it."

Merlin jumped, so abruptly that she nearly slid off the seat with a deep sway of the carriage. She scrambled upright, catching the lavender-scented compress as it fell from her forehead. “Ransom!” she gasped. “Whatever—I was afraid you—But what are you doing here? Oh, no,” she wailed, “they've captured you, too!"

He had been grinning at her, resting casually back against the seat with his beaver hat cocked, but at that he looked indignant. “They most certainly have not. That fellow in the other seat turned out to be a poor hand at fisticuffs in the dark. Dropped him with one good right."

He looked pleased with himself. Merlin sat holding her forehead and trying to puzzle out the sequence. “So you have rescued me already,” she said.

"In a manner of speaking."

"My,” she said wonderingly, “I must have been carried a long way for you to have to bring a coach to fetch me home."

His self-satisfied smile turned grim. “You aren't going home. Not just yet."

"I'm not?” She pursed her lips. “Well. I suppose I might wait a day or so, if you think it necessary. But I hope I can remember how I made the kite that long."

"I'm afraid a day or two won't suffice, my girl. I'm taking you to Mount Falcon for an indefinite visit."

She sat up straight. “You can't do that. I don't want to go."

"Consider yourself abducted, then."

"I will not! You've rescued me."

He smiled. “Actually, I fear I'm the one who kidnapped you. You didn't recognize my shriek when you nearly unmanned me with that gallant kick last night?"

Merlin blinked. She frowned at him, and at the unconscious man on the opposite seat, and pressed her aching temples. Finally she said in a glum voice, “I don't believe I understand."

"Poor Wiz.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “You don't have to understand. Just let me take care of you."

She resisted him for a moment and then gave in to the steady, comforting pressure of his embrace. She drew in a shuddery sniff and blew her nose on the lavender cloth. “That seems altogether too s-simple."

"Does it?” His breath ruffled her hair. “It's begun to seem quite perfect to me, Wiz."

She said tremulously, “I suppose you still want me to marry you."

He rubbed the back of her hand, a gentle touch that made the knot in her chest go queer and melting. “I think it's the right thing to do. It's a hard world, Wiz. I wouldn't want you to suffer for my sins."

"I liked what you did,” she said in a small voice. “I think Bishop Ragley is stupid to call that a sin."

He was silent for a long moment. His finger traced the bones in back of her hand. He took a deep breath and let it out harshly. “Some times and some places, it is most definitely a sin. It was unforgivable, what I did. I'll live with it all my life."

Merlin bit her lip. “Will it make you very miserable?"

"Ashamed,” he said softly. “Unspeakably ashamed, to have hurt you."

"But you didn't hurt me."

"In the eyes of the world, Wiz, I've ruined you. I know you don't understand that. I hope you never do. I hope you let me make the only reparation I can and allow me to marry you."

"But my flying machine...” Merlin hesitated. “You don't like it."

His fingers paused in their gentle rubbing. “I never said I didn't like it."

"My ‘damned flying machine,’ you called it. ‘A bloody fantastical flying machine.’ You said I would most likely break my head.” She swallowed. “That's what you said. I remember."

"Well, most likely you
would
break your head,” he said in a reasoning tone. “I wouldn't stand by for that any more than I'll let you be condemned for what I've done to you. I'll do my best to keep you from hurt, Wiz. I swear it."

"But you don't understand.” She shifted in restless frustration. “I'm building a
flying
machine. It's going to
fly,
not fall."

She felt the deep breath he took and held. “Merlin,” he said gently, “people don't fly. Birds fly. If people launch themselves off a cliff with a pair of wings attached, they fall. They're killed.” His arm tightened around her shoulders with a faint shudder. “I don't imagine it's a very pleasant way to go, either."

"You don't understand,” she said despairingly. “You don't understand. Wouldn't you like it, to be able to fly? To go as high as you could and see everything; to go as far as the wind goes, as fast...” She sat up away from him. “I can do it. I know I can. It's more than just attaching a pair of wings. Oh, it's much more than that. It will work. Someday. I'm certain of it."

He had a very odd expression on his face, dismay mixed with amusement and something else, something warmer and more affectionate. “Then at present I fear that we shall have to agree to disagree."

Merlin looked at her lap, disappointed in his lack of response to her dream. “I suppose so."

She felt his gaze on her, alert and probing. The carriage rocked along in silence. At length, he said, “But you wish not to marry, I take it."

She did not answer.

"Merlin,” he said softly, “your flying machine isn't
you
. Don't let it overwhelm what's really important."

"But it is important!” she burst out. “It
is
me. I mean...” She paused, struggling for words. “There's nothing else to me but that. It's what I
am
. I'm going to invent a flying machine that works. Uncle Dorian always said so."

He scowled, leaning his elbow on the windowsill and pinching the bridge of his nose. Merlin watched him from beneath her loosened hair, noting the way the vague sunlight picked out his strong cheekbones and the clean, commanding line of his jaw. Though he frowned, there was still that touch of warmth about his mouth, amusement mixed with impatience that softened the unyielding angles and planes of his face.

He was like no one she had ever seen before—completely composed on the outside, perfect, immaculate in his dress and manner and yet radiating energy, a focused power that would sweep every obstacle from his path. It dawned on her that he really
had
kidnapped her, that he was carrying her away against her will, and she had not made the least move to stop him after that first instinctive kick. Which hadn't, she thought gloomily, appeared to have hindered him in the slightest.

He toyed with her fingers, lifting each one separately and letting it fall with the sway of the carriage. “I think,” he said finally, “that it might be best if you left off with your work on the flying machine for a space."

Merlin stiffened, pulling her hand away. She stared down at her balled fist. “That's impossible, Mr. Duke.” She heard a very faint breath of amusement from him and corrected herself quickly. “Mr.—um—Ransom, I mean."

He lifted her chin. “That's very nice,” he said. “To have you use my Christian name. I don't hear it very often."

"It's easier to remember.” She tucked her chin in, trying to evade his touch. It was hard enough to keep her mind clear without having him look at her in that disturbing way. “And I'm very sorry, but I cannot stop working on my aviation machine in favor of the speaking box."

"Well, then,” he said easily, “don't work on either. Think of your stay at Mount Falcon as a holiday."

She bit her lip, frowning stubbornly.

"Merlin.” His voice was very soft. “It grieves me to hear you say that there's nothing else to you but your great-uncle's fanciful dreams. It's not true."

"It is. What else have I invented? Oh, once I made a kettle that would boil water with electricity, and there's the speaking box, but who would care about something like that?"

"I suppose there might be some harebrained fellow who'd take an interest in a speaking box, but I wasn't talking about inventions. There's more to life than mechanics and chemistry."

"I like mechanics,” she said. Then, in a burst of honesty, she added, “I'm not very partial to chemistry, though."

"There are children, for instance. Have you never wished for a family?"

Merlin opened her mouth. She closed it. She thought of the house where she had been brought up—quiet when her great-uncle had been there and quieter still after he had died. Her chest felt hollow, and her lips went quivery and out of her control. “No!” she said defiantly. “Uncle Dorian said children were quite a nuisance. Noisy. And always wanting a sweet when one is trying to concentrate."

He studied her. “I see."

"No,” she said more firmly, “I don't care for children in the least."

"Have you ever actually met one?"

"Perhaps not, but Uncle Dorian told me all about them. He preferred to keep hedgehogs."

Ransom glanced at the bound stranger on the opposite seat, making sure the man's injured head still lolled without conscious volition. He took Merlin's hand and leaned near her. “Wiz,” he said, making his voice as gentle as he could, “do you understand that because of what happened between us, there is a possibility that you might bear a child?"

Her eyes widened. “But I don't want one."