© 2008 C. P. Lesley

The Not Exactly Scarlet Pimpernel

Chapter 1
BOSTON

Moonlight glimmered through mullioned windows, highlighting the gold trim of white eighteenth-century carved panels. Pale green wallpaper, flocked in a darker shade to match floor-length velvet curtains, picked up the colors of the Aubusson carpet. Delicate Georgian-era furniture displayed the same shades in clean, elegant lines. A large hourglass, edged with gold, showed me a redheaded beauty with huge blue eyes, wearing nothing but a chemise so sheer it seemed almost transparent. Behind me, lace pillows piled against the headboard of a four-poster bed. Satin sheets, the same pale green as the walls, slipped through my restless fingers. I sank back among the pillows, waiting.

He appeared as if from nowhere. Seeing him in the doorway, I stretched against the mattress, fingers curled in anticipatory ecstasy. The thin lawn of my chemise tightened around my chest. At the sight, passion flared in his blue eyes. Wearing nothing but a brocade robe, he walked toward me.

“Percy,” I whispered, as he sat next to me on the bed. “Oh, Percy.” Words dissolved as my mind flooded with sensation. My hand caressed his cheek. He caught it in his, turning it upward to press a kiss into the palm. “Percy,” I repeated. “Love me.”

He needed no other invitation.  The one man I trusted, dependable as sunshine, pulled me against his chest. My arms encircled him, caressing the fine blond hair confined by its black ribbon. The skin of his nape felt warm and smooth under my fingers; my mouth opened in response to the pressure of his. He nibbled my earlobe, then trailed kisses down the side of my neck, lingering on the special spot, known only to him, that melted not only resistance but thought. His lips moved lower, tracing the line of my shoulder, finding the hollow of my throat—then lower still. The sound of our breathing filled the otherwise silent room.

My back arched as his hold on me tightened. The buttons of the chemise gave way under his probing, and the soft linen of his shirt grazed nipples taut with desire. Then our clothes disappeared, as if by magic, and the satin sheets enclosed two bodies moving as one.

My tongue touched the curve where his collar bone joined his neck, tasting salt mixed with something intangible. My nose detected a faint aroma—familiar, masculine, a sea breeze wafting past a grove of lemon trees. Unexpectedly, Percy’s blond hair darkened to a soft light brown, his blue eyes to hazel. Nothing else changed: his hand continued to caress me; his strong, knowing body remained passionate and sure; if anything, my sense of entering a perfect union increased. I snuggled closer, eager to draw him into me.

The man I loved …

“WBUR Boston. It is 6:59.” The announcer’s voice jerked me from sleep. Acting purely on instinct, I punched the button on the alarm clock, flopped onto my back, and stared at the blatantly modern, wholly unromantic ceiling tiles of my Cambridge apartment. Wisps of dream clung to me like mist. 

Damn. I don’t want to wake up. Not when I’d just reached the good part. Fantasy sex is the only kind I have these days!

My own fault, of course. Twenty-five years of exposure to my congenitally faithless father, topped off by a killer breakup the year before, had persuaded me to swear off men entirely.

Why the subject of said killer breakup would show up to take over my lovely dream of Percy—well, that question didn’t bear asking.

The man I loved, indeed. No way! I shoved my unwanted sorrow into the mental cubbyhole where it belonged.

Perhaps the alarm had gone off at the right moment after all. 

I couldn’t pin the unwanted interruption on a roommate: my  rent-controlled studio housed only me. I was the one who’d absent-mindedly hit the “set” button last night, forgetting that the semester had ended and I could sleep in if I liked.

The dream hovered at the edges of my awareness, tempting me back into Percy’s arms. I closed my eyes, remembering the warmth and hardness of his body, the passion, the huskiness in his voice … 

Again the images morphed in my brain. The husky voice acquired rolled Scottish r’s; Percy's blue eyes turned hazel and his blond hair brown; the room lost its museum quality and became a Boston brownstone, L.L. Bean flannel replacing the satin sheets. The passion and pleasure were the same, but nostalgia cast its bittersweet glow over the whole.

What's wrong with me today? Ian’s long gone and probably rejoicing in his narrow escape. 

The radio came on again. I’d thought I’d turned it off, but instead I'd activated its snooze mode. I sighed and dragged myself into a sitting position. Maybe I could conjure Percy again tonight.

And maybe Ian would mind his own business and stay out of my dreams.

My eye fell on the book that always lay on my bedside table, even when I wasn’t reading it: The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Baroness Emmuska Orczy. In a blaze of cognitive function spurred by excitement I remembered what day it was. I hadn’t set the alarm by accident. I needed to reach Concord by ten. 

No wonder I’d dreamed of Percy. Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet, the principled action hero who masked his identity behind the façade of society idiot, was Orczy’s signature creation.

That was the man I loved, who didn't exist outside the pages of a novel. Pathetic!

My bare feet touched the rug as I tumbled out of the Murphy bed and headed for the shower. No time to lose. Today I would meet Sir Percy, at last.