The Cornish Heiress (19 page)

As he thought them Philip was aware that the words were a
silly, conventional cliché of women’s romantic novels. But they were also
horribly descriptive. Quite literally he had felt as if someone had thrust
something sharp through his chest. As beautiful as she was, had no one ever
given poor Meg even such worthless trinkets before? Only Philip knew that was
not what she meant. It was how they were given, why, and by whom that had
invested carved, wooden beads with a value far above emeralds and diamonds. In
fact, had the things had any intrinsic value, Meg might have been bitterly
hurt.

Having got so far in his thoughts, Philip dared go no
further to wonder why he was so filled with joy by Meg’s confession of love—for
that was what her words had meant. It was easier to shut his mind. Instead of
facing the terrifying notion that a St. Eyre had fallen in love with a woman
who ran a crew of smugglers, he pushed her face up to his and fastened his
mouth to hers. Desire, that was what he felt—not love, desire.

There could be no doubt that he felt desire and that Meg was
responding to him. Their embrace was so violent that after a moment the buttons
on Philip’s coat began to cause her acute pain. She struggled to continue
kissing Philip and still ease the pressure, but he let her go as soon as he
felt her movement.

“Your buttons,” Meg gasped before Philip could ask what was
wrong.

It was a most fortunate interruption. The too-intense mood
was broken. Both were able to laugh while Philip tore off the offending garment
and it provided the perfect excuse for removing Megaera’s clothes. Murmuring
sympathetic nonsense, Philip opened her peignoir and began to kiss her
“bruises”. His lips found her breasts, but the tucked and ribboned chemise,
enchanting as it was, impeded progress. Philip slid the peignoir over Megaera’s
shoulders, and the costly garment fell to the floor unheeded in a crumpled
heap. The chemise straps followed, but Megaera’s fine upstanding breasts,
nipples now erect with excitement, supported the chemise and it would not slip
by itself.

Not at all discouraged by this impediment, Philip went to
work on it—but not by any crude expedient such as pushing the chemise down with
his hands. He did allow his fingers to pluck gently at the back, but lips and
chin worked at the front—kiss, push, kiss. Megaera’s hands fluttered
uncertainly to Philip’s shoulders, to his hair, to his cravat. Here they
steadied. The process that directed her actions could not be called thought.
The excitement that was sweeping over her had suspended, rational decision, but
Megaera knew what she wanted anyway. She had an intense desire to see and touch
Philip’s skin.

She drew the pin from his cravat and dropped it to the
floor. The folds loosened at once. Her attempts to pull it off were somewhat
uncertain, distracted as she was by the waves of pleasure Philip’s mouth was
creating, but she got it loose and dropped it just about the time that one rosy
nipple was bared. Philip seized on it at once, nibbling gently with
lip-sheathed teeth. Megaera sighed shudderingly and she caught at Philip’s
shoulders because she felt her knees were about to buckle.

Although Philip was by no means calm he was not as lost in a
sea of sensation as Megaera. The sensations were, after all, quite familiar to
him. He was thus still capable of keeping a fixed purpose in mind, and that
fixed purpose was to make this experience as perfect as possible for his
partner. Oddly enough the need to think and plan to restrain the satisfaction
of his desire heightened his enjoyment enormously. He was aware that he had no
hold on Meg, that he must make her willing to participate again by his own
skill as a lover.

He was also aware that her reactions to him were completely
real, totally honest. This time he was not a paying client who must be
flattered and cajoled into coming again and into paying a little extra.
Although he did not think of it consciously, the realization came to him that
what he had assumed was pleasure in his company and performance might well have
been no more than acting. Even if it were not, it could have no meaning.
Clients were not chosen for their youth and good looks. As a relief from the
old, the ugly, the cruel ones, Philip might be pleasant.

Meg, he was sure, had never been a whore. He guessed she was
not a virgin because of her readiness to yield to him, but it was obvious from
her actions that her sexual experience must have been very limited and that she
had been a passive rather than an active partner. Everything she had done
showed that it was he, as a particular person, rather than the act itself, she
desired. And that, untainted by any commercial transaction, was both so
flattering and so stimulating that Philip, who was normally a considerate
lover, was pushed to an even keener sense of his partner’s needs.

Having interpreted Meg’s quick clutch at him with perfect
accuracy, Philip released her nipple and caught her up in his arms. She was
light enough and cooperative enough—flinging her arms around his neck to hold
herself close—that he could free one hand to push the screen away and pull back
the counterpane and blankets. As he set her on the bed he slid his hands up and
pulled the chemise off over her head. The cessation of active stimulation
permitted Megaera to catch her breath. It did nothing, however, to diminish her
desire to see Philip’s bare body.

“Take your clothes off,” she said, far too deep in her
physical need to be shy.

Philip licked his lips and took a deep breath. Meg’s demand
had driven him dangerously near a crude grab at quick satisfaction by exciting
him far beyond his normal level of passion. The naked desire for him was very
different from the prostitutes’ practiced—and, now he realized,
indifferent—attempts to stimulate him. He yanked off his shirt, pulled off his
boots, and shoved breeches and underpants off his narrow hips in one motion.

Meg’s sigh, her half-parted lips, the wide-opened eyes that
ran up and down his body in eager examination, made him tremble with desire. He
was at the bed in an instant, touching, kissing, fondling. Meg sighed and
quivered, stroking the smooth, dark skin—so different, so exciting—winding her
fingers in the black curling hair that grew in a wide triangle on Philip’s
chest. She returned his kisses, pressing her lips to his neck when his mouth
was busy elsewhere. Abandoning his chest, Meg began tracing the thin line of
hair that was different, flat and sleek, and descended from the down-pointing
apex of the triangle and grew over Philip’s belly to widen into the pubic bush.

Softly, under his breath, without releasing the breast he
was alternately kissing and sucking, Philip began to groan. He could not hold
off much longer. One hand found the button of her pantalets. He fumbled but
found the minor hindrance exciting rather than frustrating. The girls in the
bawdy houses never wore such inconvenient garments. Under their wrappers they
were usually nude. Fortunately the button came undone before Philip lost
patience and wrenched it off. One hand slipped under, seeking Meg’s Mount of
Venus and what lay beyond. Meg began to whimper and twitch, thrusting
uncertainly toward the touch that was driving her wild.

Her response made at impossible, and clearly unnecessary,
for Philip to wait. He lifted his head momentarily to see what he was doing and
stripped off Meg’s pantalets, mounted her, positioned himself, and thrust. Meg
cried out, partly in relief but also a little in pain. She was not a virgin,
but it had been a very long time since she had had congress with a man. For all
her desire and her eagerness, she was stretched by Philip’s considerable endowment.
He paused at once, breathing painfully hard, obviously very surprised.

“Sorry,” he gasped. “I am sorry. I did not guess—”

“Never mind,” Meg whispered, winding, her legs around him to
help him along. “I love you. I want you. Love me.”

Philip took full advantage of Megaera’s urging. His surprise
had cooled his initial heat, and he moved cautiously until he was sure he was
no longer hurting her. It took longer than he had expected from her eagerness
to satisfy her, but she came to climax at last, crying out and clutching
convulsively at her lover. Philip then abandoned himself to his own pleasure.
This seemed to give Meg as much delight as her own orgasm, which was another
pleasant surprise to Philip. Oddly, Meg went even further. When Philip had
caught his breath and began to lift himself off her, she held him tight. “Did I
not content you, darling?” he asked, somewhat startled and worried, knowing
there was nothing more he could do for a while.

“Oh, yes,” Megaera sighed. “Nothing so wonderful ever
happened to me before.”

“How you flatter me,” Philip said. His voice was light, but
be was quite sincere. “But, love, I will crush you if I lie atop you now.”

“I don’t care. I can’t bear it to be over.”

Her naïveté was adorable—and totally convincing. Philip knew
that either he was her first lover or, if she had been used before, it was just
that—she had been used, not loved. He kissed her lips gently, then her
forehead, cheeks, and chin, little light kisses of affection rather than
passion.

“Do not talk so silly, my darling. Love is never over. It
only rests to renew itself. Let me turn so I will not hurt you. I assure you
that you cannot wish to lie closer to me than I wish to lie to you.”

He rolled sideways, pulling her with him; surprised to feel
himself growing harder instead of slipping out of her. There was no drive to
the sensation yet, only a lazy urge not to withdraw. Philip was perfectly
content to remain coupled, and Megaera could hardly believe her own joy. Edward
had succeeded in arousing her several times, but he had never brought her to
climax because he never cared enough to notice. Even if he had, he would not
have bothered to hold back his own pleasure to satisfy her. And when he was
finished, he was finished. There were no sweet words, no soft kisses, no
postlove fondling. Edward simply withdrew, left her, and went to sleep in his
own room.

At first Megaera continued to cling as if she expected
Philip to push her away (that had happened to her too), but it very soon became
apparent that he had spoken the truth. She could see that he was enjoying her,
admiring her, truly as eager to listen to her soft murmurs of love as to reply
to them with kisses and caresses. It was all so full of joy. Philip laughed at
her fascination with his dark skin, with the way the hair grew on his body, but
he laughed kindly, inviting rather than rejecting her attentions. Slowly the
gentle touches of investigation grew more directed. The kisses lasted longer,
lips parting to invite the tongue’s invasion. They made love a second time,
more slowly but with even greater intensity because they were more sure of each
other and did not need to hold back anything for fear of offending.

When they were finished this time, Megaera did not cling.
Her contentment was thus even greater because, although Philip lifted himself
off her at once, he drew her back into his arms and held her most tenderly.
After their exertions they slept very soundly. Nonetheless each was dimly aware
of the other’s presence, neither having ever before slept a night through in
the company of another person. It was strange to wake in the morning touching
one another, and a joy so incomparable that it was near to pain for each to see
the delight in the other’s face.

They made love once more with the dim light of early morning
stealing around the edges of the curtains, and slept again, to be awakened by
the maid’s voice reminding them that they had asked to be called by eight of
the clock. Philip groaned, answered the girl, then turned and looked at Meg pathetically.

“Are you really going to make me go out and hire a wagon?”
he asked. And then he put back a tendril of hair that had fallen over her face
and sighed. “You are
so
beautiful, Meg. I cannot believe it, but what I
said—oh half jesting—it is true. Each time I look at you, you are more
beautiful than before.”

Megaera’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not dare
answer in kind. She was treading very dangerous ground. Everything Philip said,
everything he did, raised him higher in any comparison with the men of her own
class—at least those with whom she had an intimate acquaintance. And Philip was
sounding more and more as if he really loved her. No, she could not encourage
that. It would be cruel to allow him to believe she could be his. Only she could
not—not if her life had hung on it—hurt him at that moment. All she could do
was avoid the problem.

“I hope,” she said as tartly as she could, “that your eye
trouble does not interfere with your selection of the cart horses.”

“What eye trouble?” Philip asked, so puzzled that he let her
go and leaned back.

“The eye trouble that makes you see me so peculiarly.”
Megaera forced herself to laugh, but it came out as a shy, gentle sound rather
than the hard, cynical chuckle she had hoped to achieve.

Philip laughed too, but he sighed resignedly and got out of
bed when she held off his attempt to kiss her again. “Slave driver,” be
groaned. “I never met such a woman. What does Pierre have which I do not have
that inspires you to such devotion?”

“An unlimited supply of brandy and wine,” Megaera replied,
but her voice was happy.

She had escaped any declaration of love on Philip’s part. He
was only teasing her now. She lay a moment longer to let Philip finish using
the chamber pot, then got out of bed too. The disorder in the room made her
blush faintly. Her peignoir lay where Philip had dropped it in the middle of
the floor; her slippers came next, one at a time, as she had pushed them off
while Philip carried her to the bed; her pantalets and chemise were on the floor
also, but beside the bed. Megaera giggled as she suddenly thought one could
follow the “rake’s” progress by the position of the discarded garments.

Philip’s clothing was even more widely scattered because he
had flung each article away in haste when he undressed. He had pulled on his
drawers and breeches and then opened the door to take in the morning tea tray.
Now he was wandering around, picking up and putting on a stocking here, a boot
there, mumbling to himself about how things had gotten into such peculiar
places. Megaera paused in her own dressing to watch him, almost sick with the
intensity of her tenderness. She had not realized her feelings could be so
fierce nor so strongly aroused by such simple, silly, everyday actions. Then
she turned away sharply, knowing she must not permit herself to think or feel
that way.

She had both petticoat and dress on when a more obscene
epithet, quite loud, drew her attention. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Sorry.” Philip looked abashed at the language he had used.
“I have pulled two buttons off my shirt. It does not matter. My waistcoat will
hide it.”

“If you can find the buttons, I will sew them back on,”
Megaera offered.

Philip looked around vaguely, clearly without much hope, but
one button showed up nearly at the toe of his boot, white against the dark
carpet. Megaera found the other almost as easily. It was only then that Philip
asked how she would sew them on.

“With needle and thread,” she replied laughing at him. “No
rational woman goes abroad without a paper of pins and needle and thread in her
reticule. If she has them, there is hardly ever a need, but does she dare step
one foot out of the house without them, then some great clumsy brute puts a
foot on the flounce of her skirt instantly.”

“But you do not have a flounced skirt,” Philip remarked.

Some of the things women did and said puzzled him. Usually
he paid no attention, having little interest in matters that seemed of enormous
importance to them and of monumental insignificance to him. Now it was different.
He found himself passionately interested in everything Meg did and said. He
wanted to know her thoughts and why she thought them—even about needles and
thread. He wanted to know everything about her. Meg looked blank when he spoke
and then raised her eyes to heaven as she took the shirt from his hands.

“Philip, you are still asleep,” she said. “All I meant was
that a sensible woman is prepared for tears or a seam coming undone. A woman’s
clothing is made of more fragile materials and also has more of a tendency to
get caught in things than a man’s. And some gowns are flounced. One always
carries needle and thread.”

“Oh.”

She glanced up briefly from her threading of the needle and
looked hastily back at her work. The expression on Philip’s face was dangerous,
terribly dangerous. “No,” she gasped. “It is impossible. You must return to
France when Pierre comes.”

There was a minute of silence so deep that it was apparent
Philip was holding his breath. Then air sighed out of his lungs. “Yes.” The
word was spoken so softly that Megaera hardly could hear. Her hands trembled
and she pricked herself. She could sense that Philip was no longer looking at
her. She sewed, half blinded by tears that she would not permit to fall, bit
the thread, started on the second button, then dared a glance at him. Philip
had walked to the window and was looking out.

“It is not in my power to refuse to go,” he said. “It is not
a question of money, Meg. I have an obligation. I cannot explain it, but you
must believe that if it were a matter of choice I would never leave you. Give
me these two weeks, Meg—or however long until Pierre comes back.”

The sick terror that had gripped Megaera after she spoke
receded. She had thought that either Philip would be furious or that he would
laugh cruelly at her for thinking he wanted more than a night’s pleasure. The
answer she had was a terrible double-edged sword, Megaera knew, but just now
she did not care. All that mattered was that one edge had killed her fear and
given her happiness. Later she would pay and pay bitterly for this present joy,
when the other edge came to bear and loneliness cut her. For this moment the
relief was so great that she closed her mind to the future. All she permitted
herself to think about was the tender pleading which confirmed that Philip felt
as deeply about her as she did about him. “Yes,” she whispered.

Philip was beside her immediately, pulling the shirt out of
her suddenly idle hands, seizing them, kissing them. “I will come back,” he
promised. Then he realized he might not be able to come back. He might be
caught, imprisoned, even killed. “If it is possible,” he amended. “I… God, I
want to tell you, but it is not my secret, Meg. You understand, do you not?”

“Yes. Yes, I do understand.”

Megaera thought she did, assuming Philip was speaking of
some obligation to his father. She assumed, also, that Pierre might be involved
in more activities than simple smuggling and that Philip might be indispensable
to those other activities. It. did not occur to her that Philip might be in
danger, only that Pierre might send him far away—to India, or the West Indies,
or to Louisiana.

And Megaera understood obligation to one’s parent, even when
that parent had done little besides engendering her and causing trouble. Surely
if she could endure her father, refrain from making him a prisoner in his own
home, struggle to keep him from drinking himself to death even though that
death would be a release for her, then surely Philip owed a “father” such as
Pierre a devoted duty. It was wrong for Pierre not to have married Philip’s
mother, perhaps, but Megaera knew there must have been a good reason for it.
Pierre was an honest man; he would not slough off a responsibility to a
pregnant woman or his child. In fact Megaera knew he had not done so by the
warmth and affection openly displayed between Pierre and Philip.

“Oh, Meg,” Philip exclaimed, “you are the most wonderful
woman alive, I swear it! Anyone else would have pouted and wept and fallen into
a fit of the vapors because I did not set her above my duty. I do not know how
I… Never mind. We have two weeks. That can be a very long time. Let us not
think about anything else.”

“But we must,” Megaera reminded him with a smile in her
voice. She pulled her hands gently out of his grasp and picked up the shirt. “I
must think of how to spend the rest of Pierre’s money, and you must think of
how to transport the goods, at least as far as the blasted tree.”

“Yes, but first we must think of breakfast. I hope this tea
is not stone cold. No, it is not, but there is nothing here but toast fingers.
Give me that shirt, Meg, and I will go down and order breakfast.”

“There is all that food from last night,” Megaera protested.
“We never touched it after—” She stopped abruptly and blushed.

Philip laughed. “No. Not that I was not hungry,” he said
wickedly. “It was just that I knew I would fall flat on my face if I tried to
get out of bed. You wrung me out finely my love.”

“Liar,” Megaera retorted. “It was only that your mind had
fallen into a hole and… Oh dear! Stop laughing like that, you monster. You know
I didn’t mean
that
.” She paused while Philip choked on his own mirth,
then said with dignity, “In any case, there is plenty of food.”

He looked under the dish covers while Megaera fastened the
thread on the second button, then took his shirt and put it on. “The cold meat
is fine for me,” he agreed, “but do you not want eggs and streaky rashers, or—”

“No! Goodness, Philip, if I remain in your company long I
will be too fat to walk. You will need to wheel me about in a barrow. Consider
my poor pony. Tea and toast is quite enough for me. I must go down to the
jakes. Will you fasten my sleeves, please? I find they are much easier to undo
than to do up.”

“How convenient,” Philip murmured, kissing her on the ear as
he began to button her sleeves.