Free Spring Fires by Cynthia Wright Page A

Meagan's salty lips with his own. Startled by the eagerness of her response, her arms fast around his neck, he let the kiss deepen recklessly and slid his hand around to her side, then higher to caress the ripe swell of one satin-covered breast.
    Meagan groaned softly, but Lion lifted his head as a distant knocking grew more insistent. "What? Who is it?"
    "Missa Lion," cried Wong, the Chinese butler, from the hallway, "Supper getting cold! You and Missy come now or Blamble be so mad!"
    She clung to his arms. "No!" she pleaded. "Ignore them—"
    "You know I'd prefer to stay here and make love, but we do have all evening! I'm ravenous; I only had half my meal this noon, so please indulge me this once. Besides, you know how Bramble is about her food; if we ignore supper now, she's liable to lock the kitchen!"
    Meagan tried to return his smile, but turned away instead to search out a loose robe-like gown that would accommodate her swollen waistline. Frantically, she pulled it on and suffered the touch of Lion's fingers as they fastened the back. He hung up his coat and loosened his cravat, then put an arm around her shoulders as they went down to eat.
    The table was set with the finest china, silver, and linen—Bramble's indirect salute to Lion's new office. The sour but loyal cook now made certain that Wong wore his best formal suit and striped waistcoat when he served the courses. Watching him stiffly place bowls of celery soup in front of them, Meagan resolved that such starchy displays must cease. Longingly, she remembered the casual suppers they used to eat before the fire, in the garden, or on trays in bed. Sometimes, they had gone to their country home, Markwood Villa, for a week at a time alone, leaving the servants here in the city. The first two years of their marriage she and Lion had spent almost exclusively in the country, either in Virginia on her ancestral plantation or at the villa. Now, Meagan could not coax her husband away from Philadelphia for even a day.
    For the main course, there was pheasant stuffed with wild rice, mushrooms, and almonds, as well as buttered acorn squash. Meagan pushed her food around and sipped a little wine.
    "How was your day?" she asked hesitantly.
    Briefly, Lion spoke of the news in the Senate, then looked up in sudden sober recollection. "Meagan, have you heard? Ernst Hahn, who owned the CoffeeHouse, died last night."
    Her heart twisted as she listened to his sensitive expression of sympathy for Lisette, and at last she asked: "Have you seen her today?"
    "Yes, I spoke to her after I heard the news. Lisette's a brave girl, independent in the way you were when we met, but I worry about her all the same. One can see that she hides her emotions, and I am afraid that she may force herself to work harder than she should."
    Meagan nodded, still hearing that phrase, "independent the way you were." Tears burned her heart, but she refused to cry anymore. Lion ate hungrily, and went on to mention his encounter with Nicholai Beauvisage, offering a few observations without divulging any of their conversation.
    There were baked apples for dessert, with a mixture of nuts, butter, and cinnamon melted over them. It was a favorite dessert and its warmth was soothing to Meagan.
    "Lion, couldn't we go to the villa this Friday? I miss it so...."
    "I don't know, sweetheart. It will depend."
    She decided that was the same as a refusal. It was then, at the worst possible moment, that Wong answered a knock at the front door and returned to the dining room with an envelope for Lion. He quickly scanned the note before looking up.
    "I'm sorry—I have to go out for a short while." Already he was folding his napkin.
    "Oh, really ?"
    "I shouldn't be away long, two hours at the most."
    She stood when he did, following him when he started toward the door. Wong, ever the model servant, waited with a fresh coat, hat, and cape. When Lion turned back to embrace his wife, she held him at arm's length and asked, "Won't