Stormswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Rhys shot Morgan a quick glance, relieved when his friend nodded. “That’s why I’m offering to put my resources behind someone who is of this borough, and who has considerable consequence both here and in London. Morgan Pennant.”

  After a stunned silence, the crowd broke into cheers. Morgan had always been a favorite with the Sons of Wales, and no one begrudged him the money he’d made in the colonies. Morgan was also better educated than them, yet as Welsh as the triple harp and the eisteddfodau. No one would question his suitability. Thank God.

  “You don’t object, my friend?” Rhys said under his breath to Morgan.

  “Nay. I have a score to settle with Northcliffe. And I suspect a beating won’t hurt him as much as this challenge will.”

  “Is it agreed?” Rhys cried to the crowd. “Will you lay down your arms and put forth Morgan Pennant as a candidate? If we produce a suitable one, the council will be forced to allow an election and give time for the campaign. So—will you go with me to the meeting to serve the writ for Morgan, then join me in a campaign that will shame Northcliffe forever?”

  “Aye! ” Tom Ebbrell clapped his hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

  “Aye! ” the crowd echoed.

  Tossing the cudgel aside, Rhys raised his fist. “To Morgan! ”

  The hall rang with the thunderous noise of weapons being dropped. “To Morgan! ” they cried.

  Rhys felt the old zeal swell in him again. “And to Wales! ”

  “To Wales! ” they cried.

  This time, he’d fight the battle with the Englishmen’s weapons.

  Three hours later, Rhys cast Morgan an amused glance as they rode away from Common Hall. “How does it feel to be a candidate for Member of Parliament?”

  “Ask me tomorrow. I suspect I’ll have a more sober view in the morning.” Morgan gazed off into the distance. “Tonight was only a skirmish in the battle. ’Tis easy to serve a writ, especially when the council is sorely tired of dealing with pompous noblemen like Northcliffe. But to put a man like me into office is not so easy.”

  “ ’Tis still worth a try.”

  “Aye. But this plan could wring you dry. Disputed elections for Parliament nearly always devastate the loser financially. And sometimes the winner, as well. There are the banquets to pay for and palms to grease and—”

  “I know.” Rhys rubbed his weary neck. “Father considered running once and decided against it when he counted the potential cost. But you and I are not my father. We’re far more responsible. Between us, I think we can pull it off.”

  “I hope so. Did you see Northcliffe’s face after you agreed to donate enough money to refurbish Common Hall? I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. He’s no fool; he knows ’tis easy to buy the votes of the burgesses. And when you’re buying them for me”—he chuckled—“to have me steal the election from him after I’ve already stolen his mistress is the worst indignity of all.”

  “Does this mean Lettice has come to live with you?”

  “Aye. We married yesterday by license.” A thread of steel entered Morgan’s voice. “She and Edgar are my family now.”

  “I see.” Rhys couldn’t quite hide his envy. He and Juliana could be a family, too. If he let it happen. If he could see his way through to trusting her.

  Morgan cast him a look of pity. “From what you said earlier, I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind about the women’s part in our impressment. I take it you and your wife are still at odds.”

  Rhys gritted his teeth. “I can’t believe I’m so bedeviled by one small woman. ’Tis enough to make me doubt my own sanity. The night of the engagement party, she threatened to make my life hell if I continued to distrust her. I thought she meant she’d be a shrew or do some petty nonsense like throw tantrums and defy me. I could handle that.” A groan escaped his lips. “But I’ve discovered there are other kinds of hell.”

  “That, I can well imagine,” Morgan said with a laugh. “So you still distrust her?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Lettice says Juliana was Northcliffe’s victim. She’s convinced the girl would never have done what Northcliffe claims. She told Northcliffe that to his face, too.”

  Five days ago, Rhys had argued vehemently with Morgan over the absurd idea that Juliana might be innocent. Now the idea seemed much less absurd. “And what did he say?”

  Morgan sighed. “He kept insisting he hadn’t lied. Unfortunately, there seems to be no way of knowing the truth if the innkeeper and the St. Albans brothers stick to their story. Even Lettice has no real proof of her innocence.”

  “So Lettice admits that it’s possible Juliana betrayed us.”

  “Nay. I think Lady Juliana would have to confess it under oath before Lettice would believe ill of her.”

  Rhys suppressed a curse. No one believed ill of Juliana. The women at Llynwydd deferred to her wishes no matter what he said. They looked on him as a wolf preying on the poor lamb.

  Hah! That poor lamb was rapidly twisting everyone in the household about her little finger. Before long, he’d find even his own valet taking her side.

  “One thing you should know, however,” Morgan went on. “Northcliffe did admit to keeping my letter from Lettice, which means it’s likely he did the same with yours to Lady Juliana.”

  “Yes. And it’s even likely that Northcliffe lied. But how do you explain the fact that someone told him where to find us? And why did Juliana hide her marriage from everyone from the very beginning?”

  “What reason does she give?”

  “Youth . . . fear . . . weakness—”

  “All valid reasons.”

  “And all reasons for her backing out of the marriage. Can’t you see? She must have kept it hidden because she didn’t want it. And if she didn’t want it, then she betrayed me.”

  “Perhaps it’s not as simple as that.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t even think straight anymore. I want to trust her, even though I know she must be lying.”

  “Perhaps you’re thinking straight when you want to trust her.” Morgan remained silent several moments before venturing, “Has it occurred to you that you may be choosing not to trust her for reasons other than evidence?”

  “What in God’s name do you mean by that?”

  Morgan shrugged. “If you accept that she didn’t betray you, then you can’t force her to stay with you. You’d have to let her choose between marriage to you or separation. You’d have to take the chance of losing her—as I took the chance of losing Lettice to Darcy. And you won’t risk that, will you?”

  Rhys fisted his hands on his reins. There was too much truth in Morgan’s words.

  If Juliana were innocent, he’d been unfair and callous. To think of how he’d treated her this afternoon, walking away and not trusting her with something she couldn’t have altered anyway . . .

  He resisted the thought. “She can’t possibly be innocent.”

  “Only you can know, I suppose.”

  Rhys chafed at Morgan’s veiled reproof. Thankfully, they were approaching the road to Llynwydd, where he could escape his companion.

  As he turned that direction, Morgan halted his horse. “You’re not staying at your town house tonight? ’Tis near midnight, and with the moon setting early, you may not have much light to ride by.”

  Rhys thought of Juliana lying awake in bed. She’d said she wouldn’t be waiting for him, but he couldn’t take the chance. This afternoon’s encounter had sharpened the keen edge of his hunger for her, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d satisfied it.

  “I’m going home. I’ll come to town in a few days so we can plan the campaign.”

  “Fine. Good luck with your wife.”

  Aye. He would need plenty of that tonight.

  Juliana jerked up straight in her bed, cocking her head to listen. There it was again—someone was trying to open the latch on her door. She groaned. Only one person would be attempting to enter her bedchamb
er in the middle of the night. The male curse that followed confirmed it.

  Hadn’t he heard a word she said before he left? Had he really expected her to be waiting in his bed, warm and willing? Of course he had. He was a man, and a randy one at that.

  The crack of a fist against the door sent her shrinking against the headboard. “Go away! ” she called out.

  “Open this door,” he commanded. “I must talk to you.”

  “Is that the new term for seduction?” she asked sweetly.

  “I want to tell you where I was tonight,” he said at last. “Please, Juliana.”

  The “please” nearly shattered her resolve. She moved to the door, then paused, her hand on the latch. Was this simply another trick? After this afternoon, he was bound to know that all he had to do was kiss her and she turned into wax in his hands. “You can tell me from where you are.”

  There was a long silence, then a heavy sigh. “I was at a Sons of Wales meeting. The men were threatening to riot at the council meeting, and Morgan asked me to come stop them.”

  Her heart lurched in her chest. Not again. She couldn’t bear to lose him a second time. “And you went? Without telling me why? Without stopping to think about how dangerous and stupid and—”

  “Damn it, Juliana, open up so I can explain.”

  She slumped against the door. What he meant was, Open up so I can take you in my arms and make you forget that I don’t trust you with anything.

  “You can explain just as well from out there.”

  “I’ve told you what you wanted to know.” Irritation crept into his voice. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before you left?”

  Another long pause ensued. “Because . . . your brother was going to be there at the council meeting and . . . well . . .”

  When he trailed off awkwardly, everything fell into place. Darcy had mentioned he would be putting forth his candidate at the upcoming council meeting. Apparently the Sons of Wales hadn’t wanted that, and Rhys had been only too happy to help them thwart his enemy. Even when it meant leaving her side to rush off to Carmarthen.

  “You thought I might warn him, didn’t you?” she whispered.

  “I didn’t want you to worry—”

  “Don’t lie to me. You went off without a word because you didn’t want me to warn Darcy.” She snorted. “As if I could, when you won’t even let me saddle a horse from my own stables or call for the carriage! ”

  “Damn it all, I’m sorry.” When he spoke again, his voice sounded strangled. “I was wrong to run out without any explanation. It was a gut reaction. I didn’t stop to think . . . I just—”

  “Didn’t trust me.”

  “Let me make it up to you.” His rumbling voice made it absolutely clear how he intended to “make it up” to her. “Open the door and let me show you I’m sorry.”

  She tensed. She desperately wanted to see what it would be like to have him make love to her again, fusing his naked body to hers, driving himself deep inside her. Her knees went weak.

  But she knew what would happen afterward. He would distrust her again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. He would keep shielding his heart, even while he made love to her.

  And that would hurt far more than this absence of him.

  “Go away, Rhys,” she whispered through a raw throat. “Go back to your radical companions and leave me in peace.”

  The door shook as he pounded his fist into it. “I know you want me, wife. You can’t deny it.”

  “I don’t want you to hurt me. I’m afraid of you, Rhys.”

  “Nay.” His voice sounded so close to her ear, she had to remind herself of the stout oak door between them. “You’re not afraid of me. You’re afraid of yourself. That’s why you haven’t locked your door until tonight—because this afternoon you almost gave in. And you’re terrified that you might do it again if you unlatch the door.”

  “I’m not . . . I won’t . . .”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Good night, cariad. I won’t make a liar of you tonight.” He dropped his tone to a satiny caress. “But you can’t stay in there forever.”

  As his footsteps echoed, she cursed. It was only a matter of time before he took complete advantage of her weakness for him. She could only hope that, by that time, his weakness for her would be just as great.

  17

  Sea on the shore no longer

  Stays than this outlaw in care.

  So I’m bound with pain, shackled

  Straitly, and my breast is nailed.

  Scarcely, beneath her goldhead,

  Shall I have my wise young maid.

  —DAFYDD AP GWILYM, “HIS AFFLICTION”

  It was already midmorning when Lettice entered the bedroom to find her husband still asleep, sprawled across the mattress like a conquering hero. Ah well, it was Sunday, and he’d had a late night in town.

  She still could scarcely believe he was hers. All these years of aching for him in secret when Darcy came to her . . . and now they were bound by vows that even the mighty Lord Northcliffe couldn’t break.

  As she studied his familiar tanned face and the long scar that divided his bristly cheek in two, she sighed. Could they ever put those years behind them? Could he ever completely forget she’d spent that time in the bed of his enemy?

  As if feeling her presence, Morgan opened his eyes and swiped back his unruly hair. “Good morning, sweetheart.” He patted the bed.

  She sat down beside him. “Good morning, Mr. Candidate for Parliament.”

  He laughed. “So you actually heard all that muddle I told you last night. Your ‘hm’ and ‘um’ sounded suspiciously like someone talking in her sleep.”

  Playfully, she punched his arm. “Oh, I heard all right. And while you’ve been sleeping the day away, you and Rhys have become the talk of the town.”

  He pulled her atop him, settling her against the length of his body. “What are they saying?”

  “That you’ll be a ‘force to be reckoned with’ and other such nonsense.”

  “And are they admitting what clever devils we are, to rout Northcliffe at his own game?” When her smile faltered, he added hastily, “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

  She brushed her lips over his. “It’s all right. It’s not as if we can erase what happened by not talking about it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But I wish I could.” His voice turned grim. “I wish I could blot the devil completely from your mind . . . and your memory.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about. Those years were like wandering through the mist to me. These few days with you have been more real than all my years with Darcy.”

  His eyes searched hers. “Still, it must bother you to hear me speak of him with venom.”

  “Nay.” She rested her head on his chest. “I understand why you want him to pay for what he did. But you can’t expect me to feel the same urge. I’ve already made him suffer by leaving him. Nothing I could do would punish him more.”

  Morgan stroked her hair. “If not for what he did to us, I could almost like the man. His father was a stupid noble who let his holdings fall into disrepair, but Northcliffe turned that around and made it profitable in a short time. He’s got a good mind. ’Tis a shame he uses it only to gain power.”

  “He won’t be doing that much longer. With Rhys’s money and influence behind you we’ll soon be putting M.P. after your name, and that will sound the end to Darcy’s power, I suspect.” She kissed his scruffy chin. “I’m only hoping you don’t grow a big head once you’re an M.P. I won’t countenance that.”

  He thrust his hips suggestively up against her. “I’m already growing a big . . . something, my love. Do you think you can ‘countenance’ that?” He reached down to drag her skirts up her thighs.

  “Stop that! Edgar might come in and see us! ”

  He clamped his hands on her backside and squeezed. “Then he’ll learn a thing or two from his old Da, won
’t he?”

  “Why, Morgan Pennant, you . . . you . . .” His fingers slid between her legs, and she said his name again, this time more of a sigh than a protest. “Let me at least close the door.”

  A sound from the doorway made her look around, and there stood Edgar, round-eyed and bewildered. In a thrice, she jerked down her skirts and scrambled from the bed, hearing Morgan groan behind her.

  “What are you doing with Father?” Edgar asked, shoving his thumb into his mouth.

  It had taken only a day for Edgar to accept that Morgan was his father. Apparently, he thought fathers appeared magically from the sea every day.

  Lettice hurried over and wiped a smidgen of food from his cheek. “Mother and Father are . . . playing a game, dear. Why don’t you finish eating, and then play with the toy ship Father bought you yesterday?”

  She glanced back at Morgan, who regarded her with frank male appreciation. “Mother and Father will be . . . finished in just a bit, and then we’ll do something fun. Does that sound good?”

  With a nod, he walked off. She shut the door, but before she could even flip the latch, she heard a timid knock.

  “What is it, son?” Morgan called.

  “Can Mr. St. Albans have some flummery, too?”

  “Oh Lord,” Lettice muttered as she swung the door open. “Mr. St. Albans?”

  “He’s in the kitchen. He’s come to see you and Father. He asked me to fetch you, but I can tell him you’re playing a game.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll come talk to Overton.” She quickly straightened her skirts and smoothed her hair.

  Morgan was already out of bed, pulling on his drawers and hunting for a shirt.

  When the three of them entered the kitchen, Overton was sitting at the table, staring into Edgar’s bowl as if hoping to find a secret in the hot mixture of oatmeal flour and milk.

  “Do you want some flummery?” Edgar chirped.

  Overton’s head shot up, then he looked warily at Morgan. “I’m not hungry,” he said to Edgar. “Listen, my boy, I need to talk to your . . . parents. Could you go play in the garden for a bit?”