“Ah, cariad.” He lifted her onto the table and fitted himself between her legs. Before she could even respond to that blatant act, he captured her mouth once more in a sense-stealing kiss.
Through a haze of voluptuous enjoyment, she felt him shove up her skirts and petticoats. Then one hand stroked gossamer caresses up her bare thigh, while his other tugged loose her fichu, then inched her bodice down to free her breasts.
When his mouth left hers to trail kisses down her throat to the cleft between her breasts, she moaned. He caught her about the waist, stretching her back until she was arched over his arm, laid out for his pleasure. And he took it with obvious delight, sucking each breast in turn.
At the same time, he inched his other hand higher until his fingers were stroking the swirl of hair between her legs. When he rubbed her there, she nearly came off the table, arching into him for more.
So he plunged his finger inside her, in and out, making her insane. She clutched his shoulders, and his mouth teased one nipple with teeth and tongue until she thought she’d die from the intense pleasure. The assault on two different fronts so aroused her that she writhed against him, seeking more.
“Yes, my darling wife,” he murmured against her breast. “Be the wanton for me again.”
She only became that when he did these enticing things to her. Yet how could she resist when his mouth sent myriad sensations rocketing through her and his finger slid so seductively inside her?
He was watching her, his eyes like sapphires at the bottom of a clear stream. Unnerved, she turned her face away. “Please . . .” But what to beg for? Mercy? Forgiveness? He was incapable of either.
She pushed at his chest, but he held her unbalanced, hovering over the table, her breasts raised for his mouth and her legs held open by his thighs. And she didn’t really want to escape him, did she?
“I won’t hurt you,” he murmured.
As if to prove it, he sought her mouth once more for a gentle, coaxing kiss; that of a lover, not a conqueror. She could almost believe it was the old Rhys kissing her, the old Rhys working magic between her legs.
“Oh . . . yes . . . yes . . .” she moaned as he increased the pace of his strokes, until she was climbing Icarus’s path to the sun, willing to risk total destruction if only she could soar. She scarcely noticed the sheen of sweat forming on his brow, nor the mad way he plundered her throat and breasts while he fondled her harder, deeper, faster.
Her enjoyment blinded her to anything but his body half-covering hers as he sought to make her part of him at every point—kissing, sucking, urging her up toward oblivion.
Then a thousand sensations exploded in her, thrusting her into the sunlight she craved and feared. With a cry, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and writhed against him, crushing her breasts against the wool of his waistcoat.
For a moment, he held her suspended. Then as her need faded to warmth, he withdrew his hand from between her legs. He thrust against her so that she could feel the rigid flesh trapped inside his breeches.
The rasp of wool against her skin yanked her from her sensual haze, and she tore her mouth from his. What was she doing? They were in the middle of the schoolroom, for heaven’s sake, with the door wide open!
He fumbled to open his breeches, and she struggled to right herself beneath him. “We can’t do this here.”
His eyes smoldered. “But we are, my darling. And it’s too late for regrets.”
“It’s not that. I do want you to . . . to—”
“Make love to you?” Triumph flashed over his face.
“Yes.” She wished she could deny her unholy craving to join her body to his, but she couldn’t. “But anyone might walk in and see us here.”
“All right, my lady wife.” He gave a pained smile. “I suppose I can make it to our bedchamber without devouring you.”
They restored their clothing and hurried down the stairs. They’d nearly reached the State Bedroom when a footman hurried toward them, waving a piece of paper. “I’ve an urgent message for you, sir! ”
Rhys barely spared the man a glance as he opened the door to the master bedchamber. “Not now.”
“But it’s from Mr. Pennant,” the servant persisted. “His man is waiting outside to accompany you.”
That made Rhys pause. He took the note and read it, then swore under his breath. “Tell Pennant’s man I’ll be right there.”
As the footman scurried off, Juliana asked, “What is it? What could possibly make you leave when we’re about to—”
“I don’t want to go, believe me.” He ushered her into the bedchamber and shut the door. “But I must.”
“At least tell me why.”
“I can’t.” He sat down to change his shoes for heavy riding boots.
Her stomach sank. “You mean you won’t. You’re quite happy to make love to me, but you still don’t trust me with your business affairs.”
He said nothing, drawing his boots on with jerky movements.
“You call me your ‘darling wife,’ but you mean only your ‘darling bedmate.’ And you only want me for that when it’s convenient.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. “It’s not my fault you waited so long to do your duty.”
Her duty? She bit back a hot retort, knowing he just wanted to distract her from his plans. “So you won’t tell me where you’re going or why.”
“That’s right.” He went to change his coat with the feigned nonchalance of a man who knows he’s wrong and refuses to admit it.
She strode for the door.
“Where are you going?” he bit out.
“You’re finished with me, so I’m returning to my other ‘wifely duties.’ ”
He was across the room and turning her around to face him before she could even open the door. “Ah, but I’m not finished with you.” His voice was dangerously soft. “This is merely an interruption. When I return late this evening, I expect to continue exactly where we left off.”
“You expect to find me warm and willing, do you? And what will you give me in return?”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You want me to sell you my soul—to be a docile wife outside the bedchamber and a wanton inside the bedchamber. You want me not to ask questions when you leave to go on God knows what fool’s errand for Morgan. In return, you offer me only the ashes of your mistrust. Unfortunately, my price is higher than that.”
“You can’t ask a price for what is mine by right—what you gave me and then took back.” When she lifted an eyebrow, he added sullenly, “But if I did decide to pay your price, what would it be? Complete run of the house? Me trailing obediently after you like that lapdog betrothed of yours?”
The thought of Rhys trailing obediently after anyone brought a bitter smile to her lips. “I only want your trust.”
He stared her down. “Your price is too high.”
Her hopes faltered. She’d thought he might be softening, that he might one day come to trust her. But the navy had sucked the trust out of him, leaving his heart to calcify.
She pulled free of him and went to open the door. “Then don’t expect me to be waiting in this bedchamber for you when you return.”
16
Find her, if you can, and bring
My sighs to her, my mourning.
You of the glorious Zodiac,
Tell her bounty of my lack.
—DAFYDD AP GWILYM, “THE WIND”
Fighting the urge to run after Juliana and pick up exactly where they’d left off, Rhys reread Morgan’s note:
John Myddelton, current holder of the seat for M.P. of the borough, is dead. Northcliffe is trying to force through his own candidate tonight at the council meeting, so the Sons of Wales are planning to storm Common Hall. They’re already furious over what Northcliffe did to us, and now they’re determined to rout him. I fear there will be bloodshed. But they’ll listen to you. They’re meeting in the basement of Gentlemen’s Bookshop, as usual. Come help me st
op them before it’s too late.
Crushing the note, he stared out at the sinking sun. Carmarthen was two hours’ hard ride from here. If he left now and drove his horse to the limit, he could probably get there in time.
But he’d lose any advantage he’d gained in his struggle to bed Juliana.
Damn it all to hell. Why must Myddelton have died now? The M.P. had been a moderate Whig respected by both sides, but if Northcliffe were to replace him with his own man . . .
Years ago, he’d have enjoyed being in the thick of it, urging on the fight, ready to cudgel freedom into the thick skulls of the Carmarthen burgesses. But war had made him more cautious. This wasn’t the way to go about effecting change. His experiences in America had taught him that.
The colonists had advantages in their rebellion that the Welsh lacked—distance from their oppressors, trained militia and navy, and a great deal of wealth. If the Sons of Wales thought they could rid themselves of the English simply by trouncing a few burgesses, they were mad. Possibly fatally so.
Rhys sighed. He had to act.
I only want your trust.
Right. He strode out the door. If he told her what was going on, she might send a messenger to warn Northcliffe before Rhys could convince the men to choose another path. Then there would be bloodshed anyway.
She’d betrayed him and his friends once. She could easily betray them again.
She wouldn’t do that, his conscience said as he mounted his horse.
Damn. He spurred his horse into a gallop, striving to wipe her from his mind, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the Juliana who taught Welsh children in their own language.
Who claimed the loyalty of her Welsh servants with the flick of a finger.
Who’d cried over him and kept his poems.
Who steadfastly proclaimed her innocence.
His gut knotted up. What if he’d been wrong?
If he were, his refusals to trust her must be like a slap in the face. Many more of those, and her onetime love might turn to hate. And he couldn’t bear having her hate him. Not now. Not after this afternoon.
He grew hard just thinking about her response to him, the arch of her back as she’d pressed into him, how she’d felt when he’d fondled her honeypot, all tight and wet and warm.
“Damn it all! ”
He couldn’t go on like this. He’d done the right thing by not telling her everything. Innocent or no, he couldn’t have risked her thwarting his plans this night. The damned woman had been going behind his back to make the servants do as she pleased, treating him with defiance . . . refusing to share his bed.
With a snarl, he tightened his grip on the reins. That at least would stop after tonight. He’d nearly seduced her today; he could do it again.
It would be easy. Although she hadn’t been sharing his bedchamber, she hadn’t been locking her door against him, either. He knew that, because one night he’d slipped inside to watch her sleep, torn between his craving for her and his determination that she come to him.
He’d resisted the urge to seduce her when she was half-asleep. But now that he was sure she wanted him, he could be blatant about it. He would kiss and caress that exquisite body until she moaned and writhed, wanting his touch as she had this afternoon.
First, however, he must take care of this problem with the Sons of Wales.
They shouldn’t be taunting a power like Northcliffe without considering the consequences. For God’s sake, half of them were family men with children. He had to stop them.
But how? Though they might be hotheaded radicals, they were also right. If Northcliffe convinced the burgesses there wasn’t enough time for a proper election, and got them to move up the election day to make it impossible for any other candidate to campaign, then whomever he chose would skate right in.
Somehow Rhys must stop Northcliffe without provoking a bloodbath.
Suddenly an idea came to him. By the time he reached the bookshop basement two hours later, he’d formulated a plan. And judging from the noise spilling out from the bookshop into the street, he’d come none too soon.
Relieved that the watch hadn’t already arrested the lot of them, Rhys strode down the stairs into the basement. Morgan was on the platform, trying to make himself heard, but the crowd was too inflamed to listen. A fiery young laborer had garnered their attention and was inciting them to riot.
The familiar smells of book paste, dust, and sweat jolted Rhys back to when he’d been the young man on the platform. It had been the first—and last—time he’d shouted revolution. ’Twas the same crowd, the same discontented tradesmen’s sons and farmers and dissidents who had come to hear him that night.
Except that these men carried hammers, picks, and staffs as they echoed the young radical’s cries for justice. Rhys wanted justice, too, but he’d learned it was damned hard to get.
He pushed his way through the crowd to climb up on the platform beside Morgan. “How long have they been at this?” Rhys shouted.
“An hour. The council meeting will be starting soon, and they want to remove Northcliffe’s candidate forcibly.”
“The last time that happened, five men were arrested and sentenced to service in the navy.” Rhys gestured toward the young radical. “Who’s he?”
“His name’s Tom Ebbrell. That’s all I know.”
“Listen to me! ” Rhys shouted at the crowd, but couldn’t make himself heard. He grabbed someone’s cudgel and smashed the nearest chair with it.
That got everyone’s attention.
“For those of you who don’t remember me, I’m Rhys Vaughan,” he said in Welsh. “I’m one of the men Northcliffe got impressed into the English Navy.”
There was a murmur throughout the crowd.
Ebbrell came over to extend Rhys his hand. “I’ve heard much about you, sir. I read your pamphlets when I was but a stripling, and ’twas them that made me learn about the blindness of Wales. ’Twas them that awakened my heart to our plight.”
Rhys shook the man’s hand. “Those pamphlets gained me a long stint in the English Navy,” he said, loud enough for the crowd to hear.
“ ’Twasn’t the pamphlets that did it, but that devil Northcliffe. Ever since his father’s death, he’s been casting about for a man he can own, and he thinks he’s found one in Sir Davies. We’ll show him otherwise, won’t we, boys?”
That brought a roar of assent from the crowd, but when Rhys held up his hand, they went silent.
He put all the force of his old revolutionary zeal into his voice. “ ’Tis a noble fight you’re choosing! ” It had been so long since he’d commanded men in Welsh that he feared his words creaked with misuse, but he tried to make up in fervor for what he lacked in eloquence. “You should thwart Northcliffe’s attempt if you can.”
He held the cudgel aloft. “But this isn’t the way to do it—with truncheons and axes. ’Twill only make the burgesses dismiss you as rebels whose opinions can be ignored.”
Angry mutters rippled through the crowd, and Tom Ebbrell’s face reflected outrage. “Don’t you want to see justice done, to see Northcliffe suffer? What happened to all your words about making Wales free?”
“Freedom comes at a price—and sometimes that price means acting with forethought, instead of rumbling forth like a herd of bulls.”
Rhys stared into the faces of furious, tired men and found himself thinking of their wives and children. How many other wives tonight had protested their husband’s activities? Six years ago, he hadn’t cared when Lettice had protested. But tonight, he couldn’t help seeing Evan’s face—and Juliana’s—as the boy had described Juliana’s tears when Rhys left.
“The colonies resorted to battle only when they couldn’t have representation. Yet we’ve been given the right to representation—”
“Aye! ” shouted a voice near him. “We have Northcliffe’s puppet! ”
A swell of disgruntled voices filled the room.
“If you pull down his man he wi
ll only find another,” Rhys called out, “and you’ll be branded as ‘rough, unschooled Welshmen’ bent on violence. You’ll find yourselves impressed as I was, made to serve the very men you detest—all for nothing but to vent your spleen.”
Some fellow in the crowd cried out, “Why are we listening to this coward? He returned to make Northcliffe’s sister his wife! He has gone over to the enemy! ”
The crowd took up the cry. “The enemy! He’s the enemy! ”
Rhys banked his fury with effort, pounding the floor with the cudgel until he got their attention once more. “I want Northcliffe’s hide as much as you. Perhaps more so, for he kept me from my wife, who is sympathetic to our cause and a Welsh scholar besides.”
No matter why Juliana had rejected their marriage, it hadn’t been hatred of the Welsh. And Northcliffe had been the instrument of her distress, so it wouldn’t hurt Rhys’s case if they saw her as her brother’s victim. Nobody loved a romantic tale of star-crossed lovers more than the Welsh.
“If I’ve learned one thing in America, ’tis that the only way to free Wales is to gain a voice in Parliament. Tonight you are planning to keep one pro-English voice out of Parliament, but all that does is delay the inevitable.”
“Perhaps so,” Ebbrell snapped. “But what else can we do? Trot off like sheep to the slaughter?”
Rhys addressed the crowd. “I have a better idea.” He paused to sweep his gaze over the expectant faces of men who’d long been oppressed by English landholders. “I say put forth your own candidate. Tonight. Then you’ll have your voice. And that’s the first step to freedom.”
The crowd fell into a stunned silence so complete, Rhys thought he could hear the collective beating of their hearts.
Then Tom Ebbrell cleared his throat. “ ’Tis impossible. Although I daresay many on the council dislike Northcliffe as much as we do, they’re afraid of him. You are the only fellow to match him in wealth and influence, but you’re not of this borough.”
Stormswept Page 20
