Jane Feather - The Emerald Swan

Chip babbled in soft distress, his scrawny little arms around her neck, his small body shivering with fear. She stroked his head and neck even while silently cursing his passion for small shiny objects. He hadn't intended to steal the woman's comb, but no one had given her a chance to explain.

Chip, fascinated by the silver glinting in the sunlight, had settled on the woman's shoulder, sending her into a paroxysm of panic. He'd tried to reassure her with his interested chatter as he'd attempted to withdraw the comb from her elaborate coiffure. He'd only wanted to examine it more closely, but how to tell that to a hysterical burgher's wife with prehensile fingers picking through her hair as if searching for lice?

Miranda had rushed forward to take the monkey away and immediately the excitable crowd had decided that she and the animal were in cahoots. Miranda, from a working lifetime's familiarity with the various moods of a crowd, had judged discretion to be the better part of valor in this case and had fled, letting loose the entire pack upon her heels.

The baying pack now hurtled in full cry past her hiding place. Chip shivered more violently and babbled his fear softly into her ear. "Shhh." She held him more tightly, waiting until the thudding feet had faded into the distance before sliding out of the narrow space.

"I doubt they'll give up so easily."

She looked up with a start of alarm and saw the gentleman from the quay walking toward her, his scarlet silk cloak billowing behind him. She hadn't paid much attention to his appearance earlier, having merely absorbed the richness of garments that marked him as a nobleman. Now she examined him with rather more care. The silver doublet, black-and-gold velvet britches, gold stockings, and silk cloak indicated a gentleman of considerable substance, as did the rings on his fingers and the silver buckles on his shoes. He wore his black hair curled and cut close to his head and his face was unfashionably clean-shaven.

Lazy brown eyes beneath hooded lids regarded her with a glint of amusement. His wide mouth quirked in a smile, revealing exceptionally strong white teeth.

She found herself smiling back, confiding, "We didn't steal anything, milord. It's just that Chip's attracted to things that glitter and he doesn't see why he shouldn't take a closer look."

"Ah." Gareth nodded his understanding. "And I suppose some poor soul objected to the close examination of a monkey?"

Miranda grinned. "Yes, stupid woman. She screamed as if she was being boiled in oil. And the wretched comb was only paste anyway."

Gareth felt a flash of compassion for the unknown hysteric. "I daresay she was unaccustomed to having monkeys on her head," he pointed out.

"Quite possibly, but Chip is perfectly clean and very good-natured. He wasn't going to hurt her."

"Perhaps the object of his attention didn't know that." The glint of amusement grew brighter.

Miranda chuckled. Her predicament somehow seemed much less serious in the company of this lazy-eyed and clearly well-disposed gentleman. "I was about to take him away but they set on me, so I had to run, which made me look guilty."

"Mmm, it would," he agreed. "But I don't see what other choice you had."

"No, exactly so." Miranda's smile suddenly faded. She cocked her head, listening to the renewed sounds of a mob in full cry.

"Come, let's get off the street." The gentleman spoke with sudden urgency." That orange gown is as distinctive as a beacon."

Miranda hesitated. Her instinct was to flee again, to put as much distance as she could between herself and the approaching hue and cry, but she found her hand seized in a firm warm clasp, and without volition, Chip clinging to her neck, she was half running to keep up with the gentleman's long stride as he returned to the Adam and Eve.

"Why would you bother with me, milord?" She skipped up beside him, her eyes curious as she looked up at him.

Gareth didn't reply. It was a good question and one to which he had no ready answer. There was just something remarkably appealing about her, something both defenseless and indomitable that moved him. He couldn't abandon her to the mob, even though reality told him that she was more than accustomed to dodging such street hazards.

"In here." He urged her through the narrow doorway into the dark interior of the inn with a hand in the small of her back. Her skin was warm beneath the thin fabric of her dress, and looking down at her small head, he saw how white her skin was in the parting of her dark auburn-tinted hair. Almost absently, he brushed the parting with a fingertip. She jumped, looking up at him startled, and he cleared his throat, saying briskly, "Keep a tight hold on that monkey. I'm sure there are bright objects in this place."

Miranda wondered if perhaps she'd imagined that fleeting touch. She looked around critically. "I doubt there's much to catch Chip's eye here. There's too much dust. Even the pewter's tarnished."

“That may be so, but keep hold of him anyway."

"My lord Harcourt." The innkeeper popped out of a doorway at the rear of the narrow passageway. His little eyes gleamed. " The livery stable has a good horse for you as you ordered. Eh, what's that? Get that filthy thing out o' here, you young whore!" He pointed a finger trembling with outrage at Chip, who had begun to recover his equanimity and was now perched on Miranda's shoulder, looking around with bright-eyed curiosity.

"Be easy, Molton. The girl's with me and the monkey will do no harm." Gareth turned into the taproom. "Bring me a pipe and a tankard of ale. Oh, and ale for the girl, too."

"I wish I knew why people are afraid of a monkey." Miranda went to the tiny window set low in the lime-washed plaster wall overlooking the lane. She rubbed at the smeared glass with her sleeve until she had achieved a relatively clear patch.

Gareth took the long clay pipe from the landlord, who had filled the bowl with tobacco and now held a lighted taper. Fragrant blue smoke wreathed to the blackened rafters as Lord Harcourt drew pleasurably on the pipe. Miranda watched him, her small, well-shaped nose wrinkling.

"I've never seen anyone do that before. It's not popular in France."

"Then they don't know what they're missing," he said, taking up his tankard and gesturing to the girl that she should take up her own. Miranda drank with him.

"I don't think I like the smell," she observed judiciously. "It makes it difficult to breathe. Chip doesn't appear to like it, either." She gestured to the monkey, who had retreated to the farthest corner of the taproom, one skinny hand over his nose.

"You'll forgive me if I don't find it necessary to take into account the likes and dislikes of a monkey," the earl observed, drawing again on his pipe.

Miranda nibbled her lip. "I didn't mean to be impolite, milord."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, but that same glinting humor was in his eyes and Miranda, reassured, took another gulp of her ale, realizing that she was parched after racing through the streets. She subjected her savior to a covert scrutiny. There was something very relaxed about him as he leaned carelessly against the bar counter, an air that she found as comforting as it was attractive. It gave her a sense of well-being and safety.

What had the innkeeper called him? Ah, Milord Harcourt, that was it. "I would like to thank you for all your kindness, Milord Harcourt," she ventured. "It's not as if we are acquainted in any way."

"Curiously, I'm beginning to feel rather well acquainted with you," he returned, adding wryly, "whether I wish to be or not."

Miranda pressed her nose to the scratched pane, telling herself that it was ridiculous to feel injured, even if it had sounded as if he was mocking her. He had entered her life for the briefest of moments and he would disappear from it as swiftly.