Stormswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Despite all he’d done, she pitied him. “Good morning, brother,” she said, more softly than she’d intended.

  The gentle greeting seemed to startle him. “I feared you would ignore my summons. You had every right to do so, after what I did.”

  “Darcy, I—”

  “Please, Juliana, let me speak first. There’s nothing you could say that would be crueler than the words I’ve said to myself.”

  He paced beside the table. “After Overton told me how Vaughan spoke to you, I thought I’d go mad. I wanted to rush there and bring you back, to force you from the bastard’s hands, but Overton said you wouldn’t wish it.”

  “Yes, that’s what I told him.”

  Darcy fixed her with a panicked gaze. “But here you are. I can’t believe Vaughan would allow it. Not after the council meeting, where he effectively ruined all my future in politics by nominating Morgan, who’ll probably win. That’s when I knew he’s not through tormenting me.”

  “Rhys knows I’m here. He may join me tomorrow evening, although we were both surprised you invited him.”

  Darcy dropped into a chair. “Overton insisted. He said it was time we treated you as husband and wife. As family.”

  She should have known Overton would be the one to act with compassion. Darcy never would.

  When had he changed from an overprotective brother into an obsessed politician? And was his present self-deprecating air an act?

  “Did Lord Devon really threaten to pull out of your mining project, or did you invent that so I’d return and you could throw me at Stephen?”

  Darcy looked stricken. “It’s the truth, I swear. The man’s besotted. And ever since Overton told him the kind of life your husband intended for you, he’s been wracked by worry.” He glanced away. “Especially once he learned my part in all that happened. Only by promising to arrange this meeting did I keep him from bowing out of our venture.”

  “Stephen is a man of character.” Bitterness crept into her voice. “You should be grateful he didn’t call you out. ’Tis what you deserved.”

  “I know that only too well.” He leaned forward. “I can’t excuse what I did back then. If I’d known how unhappy it would make you, I’d never have done it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is! I only did it to protect you from that . . . that scoundrel! ”

  “I was in love with that scoundrel.” She leveled an accusing gaze on him. “You did it to get rid of a penniless Welsh radical who might ruin all your plans for political gain.”

  He didn’t try to deny it. “If you still hate me for what I did, why are you here?”

  “I have my own reasons.”

  When she said no more, a sigh escaped him. He knew he’d lost her trust. “Whatever they are, I’m grateful you’ve come. It will help me a great deal if you can put Devon’s mind at ease.”

  She regarded him warily. “If that means reassuring him that I’m content with my marriage, then yes, I’m happy to do so.”

  “I suppose it was too much to hope that Vaughan would let you go, if you wished to leave.”

  Darcy would never change.

  “I don’t want to leave. I love him, and he loves me, despite what you did to part us.” Though she had yet to see if he trusted her.

  “He treats you well, then?”

  “Very well.”

  “If that’s true, then perhaps all has not been lost.”

  Not yet. Although Darcy had set the events in motion, it had long ago stopped having anything to do with him. Rhys’s decisions were now governed by other things. She could only pray his love for her won out.

  Darcy cleared his throat. “Do you think you could ever forgive me for what I did?” When she frowned, he added, “I now know what it is to suffer as you did. I’ve lost the woman I loved, for Lettice has left me for Pennant. And I’ve lost my position in the community, and my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Elizabeth is leaving me.” He tried for a nonchalant shrug, but looked whipped instead. “Not legally; a divorce is impossible. But she intends to live apart from me. Since we have no children . . . she thinks it’s best.”

  “Oh, Darcy, I am sorry,” she said with genuine feeling.

  “Don’t be. We were never well suited.” He came to sit beside her and take her hands. “But if I lost you, too, I’d have nothing. Even Overton can scarcely bear to speak to me. Please say you won’t always hate me for what I did.”

  His expression triggered all her memories of when they were children and she’d begged him for his help. He’d always given it. This time it was him begging, and try as she might, she couldn’t find it in her heart to refuse him.

  “I don’t hate you,” she said. “I can’t forget what you did, but I’ll try to forgive you. In time, perhaps we can put it behind us.”

  He kissed her hand gratefully, but her mind was already on another man who said he wanted to put the past behind him.

  Would he? And if he didn’t, how would she ever endure it?

  22

  I’m but an ailing poet,

  I cannot keep it secret:

  My voice grows faint for her fair face.

  —SALBRI POWEL, “THE LOVER’S HOPE”

  Evan stood waiting in Llynwydd’s entrance hall two days after the harvest as Lady Juliana had said, but something was wrong. There were no maids chattering, no footmen humming. Everyone walked about in a hush.

  A murmur from a nearby room coaxed him to eavesdrop.

  “I’d swear the poor man hasn’t eaten a morsel since the mistress left yesterday.” It was Mrs. Roberts.

  “He said she went to visit her family.” That was Mr. Moss.

  “There’s more to it, to be sure,” Mrs. Roberts said. “They quarreled. You should have seen their bedchamber. Broken bottles and perfume stink everywhere. The master only said ‘clean up this mess,’ but he’s been drinking himself sick in his study ever since. A crying shame, it is.”

  The squire and Lady Juliana at odds? But he’d seen them dancing in the fields only two days ago.

  “Good morning, Evan.”

  Oh God, it was the squire himself, and he looked awful—scruffy and unshaven, with no coat or neckcloth and his waistcoat buttoned wrong. And Evan could smell the brandy on him.

  “G-Good morning, sir,” Evan stammered. “I-I came because Lady Juliana said I was to start my lessons today.”

  “Aye, I know.” Mr. Vaughan’s eyes had an unnatural glint in them. “We need to speak about that.”

  He led Evan into the drawing room, then gestured to a chair. Evan sat gingerly, schooling his face to show nothing. Years of living with his father had made him good at that. It had often saved him from his father’s quick fist.

  “Lady Juliana won’t be able to tutor you today. She’s in Carmarthen, visiting her brothers.”

  Evan’s heart sank. “If I may ask, sir, how long will she be gone?”

  “She may return tomorrow.” A muscle worked in Mr. Vaughan’s jaw. “I don’t know. She has gone to speak with the man she’d planned to marry before I returned.” He stopped, as if realizing he’d revealed too much.

  The squire looked so bereft, Evan couldn’t help reassuring him. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon, sir. She doesn’t care for that other fellow at all. Not like she cares for you.”

  Evan’s words seemed to startle the man. “I wish I shared your certainty.”

  “Oh, but you should! Anyone can see she only wants you for a husband.”

  The squire stared into the fireplace. “She hasn’t always felt that way. She wanted to spurn me upon my return.” His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “And ’twas said that she had a part in sending me into the navy.”

  Evan’s mouth dropped open. “Whoever said that is a bloody liar, sir! My lady never spoke of you without saying how wise and good and clever you were. Surely she wouldn’t have sent such a man to suffer.”

  At the man’s continued silence, Evan stood and dr
ew himself up stiffly. “I could never believe that of her, when she’s been nothing but kind to me and everyone on this estate. I don’t understand how you can believe it, either.”

  The squire looked at him with a wan smile. “You’re very fond of my wife, aren’t you?”

  A tight knot formed in Evan’s throat. “Aye. I think she is the finest woman in all of Wales.”

  “She is indeed.” Mr. Vaughan raked his fingers through his unkempt hair. “No doubt you’re right and she’ll be coming home soon. Why don’t you return tomorrow, eh? I’m afraid there won’t be any tutoring for you today.”

  With a nod, Evan left.

  Rhys watched the boy go, a painful tightness in his chest. What a strangely perceptive child Evan was. And what had possessed him to confide in the boy?

  His overwhelming desire to have someone counter his bitter doubts and fears. Evan was so sure of Juliana, so very stout in his defense of her character. It made a mockery of his own attitude toward his wife.

  Coming on the heels of his ghastly night spent alone in their bed, it forced him to admit the truth, which she had known better than he. It came down to a refusal to trust her.

  But it was worse than that, for his deepest fear was that the dinner was another setup for betrayal. That he would go to Carmarthen only to find her willingly allied with Devon as her brothers protected her.

  It was easier not to face it—to wait here like a coward and see if she’d spoken truly of how she felt for him.

  Shudders racked him. Evan was right. How could he think such terrible things of her? This past two weeks, she’d been everything he could dream of in a wife. To believe that she would betray him again would be to ignore the many demonstrations of her affection that she’d given him from the day of his return.

  And to believe that she’d ever betrayed him was to ignore her true character.

  What had happened on that night years ago? If it had been as she’d said, her brothers had somehow found out about the marriage on their own and taken steps to prevent it.

  Was that so impossible to believe?

  Nay. Her brothers were deceitful enough to do such a thing. Whereas everything he’d seen of her since his return had shown him a responsible woman, who wouldn’t ignore a vow as holy as matrimony. Especially for the reasons Northcliffe had provided.

  And what were those reasons, which had seemed so convincing at the time?

  Reason one: dislike of his Welsh blood. It was unlikely that the woman who’d danced with Welsh laborers, who’d endured holding a snake under her skirts so she could help a Welsh boy receive schooling, would be ashamed of her husband’s Welshness.

  Reason two: a desire for riches. If living with Juliana had taught him anything, it was that she wholly lacked that desire. Though he’d made all his wealth available to her, she hadn’t ordered expensive gowns or pressured him to buy frivolous items for her.

  Reason three: his lack of a title. That one, he couldn’t be entirely sure of. Yet her concern for her betrothed had revolved around the man’s feelings, not his status. She didn’t seem to care that she’d lost her chance to be a marchioness.

  Now he came to the last, most convincing one.

  Reason four: her fear that Rhys was marrying her for her property.

  It was true that if Juliana had believed that, she would have rejected him. She’d put much store in having a husband who wanted her for herself.

  But he hadn’t known Llynwydd was deeded to her, and he felt certain she’d realized that. Besides, she’d asked him once if he was marrying her to strengthen his claim on Llynwydd, and when he’d denied it, she’d seemed to believe him.

  Now that he considered it all together, none of Northcliffe’s reasons were that convincing. Faced with everything he knew of her, Rhys couldn’t believe she’d have thrown him aside so ruthlessly.

  But what about the damned innkeeper? What about the fact that no one could have known where to find them without her help? What about Northcliffe claiming to have learned about the Sons of Wales from her? And why had her brothers continued to insist that she’d betrayed him, even after he’d returned?

  She’d given him no reason for that.

  Yet there must be one. And like her reasons for hiding the marriage, which, though they rankled, were sound, there must be a good explanation for everything. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so busy convincing himself that she’d betrayed him, he might have examined it more thoroughly. If he asked the right questions, he could probably find answers.

  But he didn’t need to anymore. He simply couldn’t believe she’d betrayed him, no matter what the innkeeper or her brothers said. Her brothers had lied, the innkeeper had lied . . . damn it all, the whole world had lied.

  She was innocent. He would swear it. And he’d known it for some time.

  So what was preventing him from putting all his faith in his lovely wife, who, in Evan’s words, was “the finest woman in all of Wales”?

  Morgan’s words from weeks ago hit him full force. 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 . . . And you won’t risk that, will you?

  With a curse, Rhys jumped to his feet. Morgan was right. At the root of his distrust was a horrible fear—that given the choice, she would not choose him.

  And how could she? He’d refused to have faith in her when she’d waited for him until all hope was gone. After his return he’d publicly maligned her, carried her off like a pirate with his booty, and nearly raped her.

  And she was a sweet, generous woman whom he shouldn’t even be allowed to touch! Why had he mistreated her so?

  He thought back to when he’d first discovered her identity. He’d been angry that he couldn’t have the English earl’s daughter, so he’d struck out, trying to bring her down to his level by accusing her of being a spy.

  The fear that she would find herself too good for him had made him mistreat her. It was like what the navy had done to him. Each time they’d lashed him to that spar, each time they’d brought the cat down to tear the skin from his back, they’d told him he was miserable and worthless, a puny Welshman not good for anything but fish bait.

  But what they’d really meant was, You damned squire’s son, with your education and your proper manners—you’re too smart and too strong willed for the navy, and we hate you for it. So they’d sought to chain him by making him like them—scared and stupefied by grog.

  And he’d tried to chain her, too. He’d bullied her, and when that hadn’t worked, seduced her to stay, all the while trying to tell her that she wasn’t worthy of him, when he knew in his heart that he was the unworthy one. Worst of all, he’d never given her the choice of staying.

  How could he have? She wouldn’t have chosen the despicable creature who’d been nothing but a torment to her.

  Yet the image of them standing together before the mirror flickered into his mind. I will always love you. Don’t you see? As long as I have life or breath, there will never be anyone else.

  He shoved his hand in his pocket to grip the pieces of the love spoon that he’d carried around with him ever since yesterday.

  It made no sense that she would love him, that she’d choose him over a wealthy English nobleman. His mind told him it couldn’t be true. But for once, he had to believe what his heart said. And his heart said that she loved him, and would never betray him. His heart said to trust her.

  So trust her, he must. For there was no other way he would find peace and keep her love.

  23

  I have my choice, beauty bright as a wave,

  Wise in your riches, your graceful Welsh.

  I have chosen you.

  —HYWEL AB OWAIN GWYNEDD, “HYWEL’S CHOICE”

  Rhys wasn’t coming, or he’d surely have been here by now. Juliana had half-expected him to appear yesterday to bear her away from the lion’s den, but he hadn’t .
. . nor sent word, either.

  A footman entered the drawing room and handed her a package. “A messenger brought this for you, my lady.”

  There was no card. She opened the expensively wrapped box to find a lace purse. She looked inside and found a slip of paper bearing only one sentence—Everything I own is yours.

  Rhys! She leapt up. “Where’s the man who brought this?”

  “ ’Twasn’t a man, my lady, but a boy. And he’s gone.”

  She sank into the chair. She knew it was from Rhys; it was his handwriting. He’d sent a gift, but hadn’t come himself. There was no cause yet for joy.

  Two hours passed, and a second gift arrived—a heart-shaped gold locket in a Celtic design. This time the slip of paper inside the box read, My heart is yours.

  It was sweet, but she wanted him, not his gifts, dear as they might be.

  By the time the third gift, a volume of ballads by Dafydd Jones titled Bloedeugerdd Cymru, arrived, she sighed as she opened it to find inscribed on the frontispiece the words, My soul is yours.

  Oh, my darling, my soul is yours, too. But if you give me your soul, you must give me your trust. So where are you?

  She fretted while she dressed for dinner, donning her best gown of emerald satin. It made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow like cream, but if Rhys didn’t come it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore if he refused to be here with her.

  She spread his gifts out on a writing table. What was he trying to say? If he was asking her forgiveness, he’d certainly chosen a dramatic way to do it. But Rhys had always known how to hold an audience.

  And she wanted more than gifts and sweet words. If he couldn’t be here to show her his love and trust, then he was not the man she wanted. And no amount of gifts would change her mind.

  She glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for dinner.

  A footman appeared at the door. “My lady? Another gift has arrived, and the bearer wishes to speak to you.”

  She nodded, her heart sinking. This meant one thing—Rhys had refused to come to dinner, and had sent someone to make his excuses. Numbly, she followed the footman to the entrance hall.