by Kate Rolin
Just a few more weeks. Damon had waited this long—he could wait a little longer. If the past two years had taught him anything, it was patience. And when Black Jack had finally been tracked down, Damon had needed more patience for the dreadful journey here…
“We’ve got him!”
Damon looked up from his desk to see his associate standing in the doorway. “Who Pendenny? You don’t mean—”
“I do. Black Jack Phillips. We’ve found him.” His friend grinned uncharacteristically from ear to ear. “But you’ll have to travel far, I’m afraid.”
Damon shot to his feet, his heart pounding wildly, “I don’t care where he is! I’ll travel to the ends of the earth to find his worthless body.”
“Well,” Pendenny drawled, “I’m glad to hear it, because it appears that is indeed where you’ll be going.”
Damon narrowed his eyes on the man, “Just where would that be, exactly?”
“Wales.”
Damon’s hands flexed menacingly around his mug. He’d made it this far. And when the man returned—Damon watched his reflection smirk devilishly—he would relish his opportunity to carry out justice, and, who was he kidding, vengeance as well.
No one would stop him—not Black Jack himself, not Pendenny who thought Damon a tad too rash, not even that pretty niece of Phillips.
Argel. The name wrapped around his brain in a slow and sweet manner: Aar-jhahl.
Damon had felt an inexplicable pull towards the girl when they were huddled in the pork bedchamber, especially upon confirming she was unmarried—a draw that Damon recognized must be squelched immediately. He knew himself, his temperament, and he must quell any attraction before he found himself in an all-too-familiar predicament. He would not allow himself to be played for a fool again.
His reflecting smirk was replaced once more by a fierce scowl.
Perhaps that’s what disturbed him the most, more than his disappointment that Black Jack was gone. He couldn’t allow his head to be turned so easily. Not by the niece of his worst enemy.
Was it possible that Argel was in league with her uncle, covering for his sins? Aiding him in his exploits?
During their brief encounter, she had appeared so genuinely good. Yet, how could she not know of her uncle’s true nature? That boy—Cefin—he’d thought Damon the devil, but it was Argel who actually lived with the demon. How could she not know?
He couldn’t allow himself to misjudge her character. After all, isn’t that how he’d got into this mess to begin with?
His stomach rumbled just then, reminding him that for all his troubles, he still needed to eat. He hadn’t thought to order anything other than something to drink when he first came in ten minutes ago. He looked up, searching for the man who’d brought his mug, but found him talking with two men who had wandered in to a table across the room. In fact, there were quite a few more customers now than when he’d first arrived. He apparently had been too lost in his own thoughts to notice. Pendenny would have scolded his dull senses.
“Eh! Argel! Look lads, my beloved has arrived!” A series of guffaws followed the outburst and Damon’s head swung to the door where, indeed, Argel had entered.
So she was someone’s beloved then? He felt a mixture of disappointment—absurd. And pity—this fellow would be stuck with that uncle of hers.
He watched as she smiled to the group of men across the room full of tables, not seeing him, “Now Davies, you know I could never be your beloved.” She walked past them up to the counter.
“Oh, Argel, why not?” the man crowed. “Don’t break me heart.”
She had removed her brown cloak and put on an apron, her back to the room as she tied the strings. “Because,” she turned to face the apparent Davies and his group, a twinkle in her eyes, “not only are you like family, but I know that your heart lies with another. I’m afraid I don’t have a snout, nor do I sleep in straw. You would be woefully disappointed.”
A roar of laughter broke out then, louder than before, as a man slapped Davies on the back. “She knows you Davies!” he hollered.
Damon smirked and returned to gaze into his mug as a ridiculous feeling of relief washed over him. He must be going mad.
Conversation resumed loudly around him as even more patrons entered, when a shadow fell across his clasped mug. “Tell me, do evil spirits require food for sustenance? Or does merely gazing into one’s cup suffice?”
Damon looked up at the soft voice to find Argel standing beside him, a small smile pulling at her mouth. Warm light from the hanging lanterns glittered in what he had earlier confirmed were hazel eyes, and her coils of warm brown curls were pulled back into a loose chignon, a few tendrils escaping around her face.
An odd sensation hit his chest. Yes, perhaps he should eat.
He started to say so, when her expression changed to a frown. “Is anything the matter Damon? You look unwell.”
Was anything the matter? Was anything the matter! He swiftly looked away, returning to his cup, and scowled. She’d chosen the worst possible topic. “I don’t take kindly to strangers intruding where they don’t belong,” he grumbled. He wouldn’t fall for false pretenses again—especially from one aiding Black Jack Phillips.
He heard a small gasp beside him. “I-I only meant to be kind, I can assure you. If you’re not hungry…” She turned to walk away.
A low sound, almost a growl, came from deep inside his throat. “Wait,” he stopped her with a hand to her arm. What was he doing? Why was he constantly flipping from mistrust to desiring her company? Never before had he felt muddle-headed about someone—he winced—not even her…
Argel turned to look at him with apparent apprehension.
“Forgive me, Argel. I am afraid a lack of food has resulted in poor manners.” He attempted a grin. “And, yes, we evil spirits do need to eat. Three times a day is quite recommended.” Her smile returned, growing warm, and his chest felt more peculiar. Yes, he must eat, and soon. “What do you recommend? Ham and beans, perhaps?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Ham, bacon…it has all been banned for a fortnight in memory of—”
“—the pig,” they finished in unison.
Damon smirked. What an odd village.
“I can, however, recommend the stew. ’Tis most delicious.” Then, lowering her voice, Argel dipped her head towards his, “Though I’ve been told Cook still puts ham in it, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
Chuckling, Damon nodded, “Stew it is.”
“Be right back,” she flashed a brilliant smile and turned away too quickly.
His cup all forgot, Damon silently watched as Argel worked her way among the other patrons: taking orders, laughing at jokes, asking after families, and generally distributing kindness. At last, she walked up to the counter to pick up a steaming bowl of stew the cook had deposited there, and Damon couldn’t help but return her smile as she made her way back to him.
“Here you go. One stew, sans ham,” she winked as she set it in front of him.
“Thank you.” Damon slowly pulled the bowl towards him, not looking down, more interested in the server than the food before him. She lingered for just a moment, fingering her apron, as if as much at a loss for words as he was. Their eyes dropped. Suddenly, it seemed that the worn wooden table became the most fascinating object to them both.
Just as the awkwardness of the situation began to register with his diluted brain, she chuckled somewhat nervously. Damon cleared his throat and she let go of her apron. When he sensed she was about to walk away, he blurted, “So you work here, then?”
Obviously. What a dunce thing to ask.
Thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind. “Yes, every evening except for Sundays. I serve food, clean, help Cook if needed. Just a bit of this and that. I also—”
“Argel, love, sing for us,” a man hollered across the way, followed by several hearty “Amens.”
“Now, Benson,” she called out, “you know the
rule—not until you’ve all paid for your second drink.” Argel had her hands on her hips and a smile on her face.
The man tossed a small bag of coins to the other server standing closest to him, “Here, a second round for everyone! Now, sing for us Argel!”
She nodded as cheers and applause roared. Whether for Argel’s agreement to sing or for free drinks, Damon wasn’t sure.
As she walked up to the counter, the ever-growing crowd hushed. Damon wondered for a second if the crowd was merely here for her. Surely there weren’t that many travelers to Beddgelert.
Argel caught Damon by surprise as she hopped up to sit on the countertop. She primly adjusted her faded gray skirts, the toes of her worn boots poking out from below, and then folded her hands in her lap.
The room was completely silent now. Damon noticed the other server, even the cook, standing still in anticipation. He held his own breath—though he wasn’t sure why or even what to expect. From the edge of his seat, he watched as Argel closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened her mouth to sing.
What came out was the clearest, most pure sound Damon had ever heard. It wasn’t quite sad, but rather soothing, comforting. Though he did not understand a word she sang, as the lyrics were in Welsh, he listened with as rapt attention as all the other Welshmen in the room.
Too soon, it was over. Damon watched Argel open her eyes for the first time since she’d begun to sing, and they immediately fell on him. Again, he was struck by that odd feeling in his chest.
What sounded like a sniffle suddenly came from the man beside him. A few coughs and sleeves running across noses sounded around the room as well.
“Well, now,” Argel smiled, clapping her hands together, “enough of that. I’ve never seen so many tears in all my born days.” She winked and every man laughed. “What do you say to a merry song?” She began swinging her feet.
“Aye! Gower Wassail,” a man in the back called out.
“’Tis not Christmastide, you clout!” another patron countered.
“Now, boys, there’s no reason we can’t sing a song of cheer the year round,” Argel laughed, jumping down from the counter, “but you must join in. I insist.” At their ready agreement, she took a deep breath and began the new song. Just as she’d directed, the others joined immediately, boots stomping and glasses raising as the lyrics—this time in English—were sung.
Damon soon found his own boot tapping, enjoying the tune. After the first verse, Argel stopped singing and ducked to make her way from the front of the room, but the men were all too busy singing—hollering, more like it—to notice.
Slowly, she made her way over to where Damon sat. “Mind if I sit with you for a bit?” she asked, nearly yelling over the ruckus.
His stew was forgot.
He nodded to the empty chair across from him and she smiled, taking it. “Do you sing every night as well?” Damon asked, leaning in to shout over the noise in the room.
“What?” Argel’s brow was drawn down as her head tilted to the side.
This wasn’t working. It was far too loud in here. Perhaps, if they stepped outside—
Just then, a man—that Benson from earlier—came bustling by and pulled Argel to her feet, whirling her into a dance as the crowd continued in song, hands clapping and toes tapping.
Away she went, laughing, though she did manage to turn and throw Damon an apologetic smile over her shoulder as a few more soft brown curls of hair fell loose.
Why did his chest keep feeling so blasted odd? Was he ill? Coming down with something? Perhaps he’d been poisoned—the ham in his stew was bad.
Surely, she wouldn’t…
He was slipping. Losing his touch. There was nothing for it. One minute he mistrusted her intentions, and the next he wanted to…to…well, to what exactly?
Too many thoughts ran through his mind at once—to have her sit by his side, to pour his soul out to her. Keep her as a bright light in his dark world. Hold her in his arms, press his lips to hers…
He blinked and briskly shook his head.
Watching Argel go from one dance partner to the next, he wondered more at this inexplicable draw to her and why he was so eager to speak with her, to have her sit with him. Then it hit him—he needed her to get to Black Jack. Whether she was an accomplice to him or not, he could find out information from her, see where the man lived.
That was all it was. That was why she was so interesting to him.
Surely.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Argel finished wiping down the counter, having swept already the dining room. It was almost time to go home and she could really use a good foot soaking in her uncle’s metal wash tub—if she still felt like hauling and heating the water.
“Thanks, Jack,” she smiled at the customer as he set his empty dishes on the clean counter with his payment.
“Night Argel.” He tipped his hat and left.
Goodness. Her feet and back ached terribly. The customers had been in merry spirits tonight and she’d danced far more than usual.
Untying her apron, she turned to hang it back on the wall and smiled. She loved this job dearly—the friendly faces, the stories she heard. Perhaps, one day, she’d have some of her own to tell.
“Goodnight Wren,” she called out to the cook as she pulled her cloak about her shoulders.
“Goodnight Argel,” came the cook’s deep voice from the kitchen. “Hir yw pob ymaros.”
Argel mouthed the familiar words along with him. Every night, Cook said the same thing—All waiting is long. Why he said it, she wasn’t sure, but she heartily agreed. Her entire life had felt like a constant game of waiting: waiting for her uncle to return—again; waiting for the day she could discover more of the world; waiting for her life to begin…
She turned to leave and smiled once more. He was still here. She had known without looking that he was the last patron remaining, other than Old Pete snoring in the corner.
Moving for the door, she paused by the newcomer’s table on her way out. “Did Mr. Pritchard not give you a room? Surely he wouldn’t make you sleep in here? Perhaps Davies will let you the pig’s old room.”
The handsome stranger looked up and she sensed he was unsure how to respond to her teasing smirk. Argel wondered again what his story was. His hair was longer than most Englishmen who traveled through the village, the black locks nearly reaching his shoulders. And his skin was darker than any other man’s she had yet seen, giving him an exotic allure. Was he actually from somewhere beyond England? Or was the sun in London simply more powerful?
Surely he had seen some sadness in his life. She sensed it by the way his dark eyes appeared to shutter the world out, by the slight creases that lined his forehead—as if plagued by constant worry. During their brief acquaintance, she’d only seen the lines fade away the moment she’d opened her eyes after singing.
Curious.
At last, he spoke. “Erm, yes, Mr. Pritchard did indeed let me a room. I—may I walk you home? It’s much too late for a young woman to be out alone.”
“So I’d be better off walking with a complete stranger?” Argel arched a brow, smirking. “With the devil, no less?”
His chair scraped against the floor and he slowly stood, towering over her, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. Indeed, the grin on his face now made him appear slightly wicked. “Ah, yes, I forgot—my fallen nature. Perhaps you’d best flee now for your safety.”
His words turned a butterfly or two loose in her stomach. Rather than frightening her away, however, she found herself wanting him to walk her home. Perhaps it was all an illusion, a result of his devilish charm, but she did not feel the need to worry for her safety around him.
After only a slight hesitation, her mind was made up. “Yes, Damon, you may walk me home. Regardless, if you tried anything, I’d need only scream and the entire village would hear.” Laughing, she continued, “Besides, I’m not worried as criminals do not come to B
eddgelert.”
His narrow eyes narrowed further into slits, unreadable, no longer a trace of humor in his hard face. Odd—was it something she said?
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he quickly closed it, and instead turned to drop a few coins on the table before offering his arm to her.
Walking out into the cool night air, Argel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She always enjoyed these quiet walks home, and had never felt unsafe. She’d learned long ago there were things to be feared more than the dark. Looking around her now, everything was awash in moonlight, day having long since departed. All was quiet, save for the sounds of the river Colwyn up ahead. A few lit lanterns hung beside doors in the row of stone buildings that stood near the bridge, casting a warm glow on the street ahead, mingling with the pale celestial light.
A throat cleared beside her, “I fear I’m walking aimlessly. You’ll have to direct me to your home.”
Argel grinned, still looking straight ahead, “We’ll cross the bridge by there and stay on this road. It won’t be much further.”
They fell in silence once again and Argel cast her eyes sideways to the stranger beside her. She glanced up, and up further still—he was so tall. His deep black hair appeared an almost eerie shade of blue in the moonlight, his eyes cast in shadow, the whites unseen. Indeed, he did have an unearthly appearance—no wonder Wynny and Cefin had been so frightened.
She bit her lip. Perhaps she should be as well. After all, she didn’t know the man and here she was allowing him to walk her home, knowing she would be alone. On the other hand, in this tiny village, he could ask anyone where she lived and be given an answer. Besides, her uncle’s house was safely tucked in the middle of a cluster of identical gray homes, thatched roofs and all, so it was hardly deserted.
As they crossed the bridge, it occurred to her that this was where they had haphazardly met only hours before. Again, she wondered what it was that had brought him here. He had mentioned her uncle, yet she couldn’t imagine what business this worldly man could possibly have with a simple trader.
