by Mary Balogh
His jaw almost dropped. Certainly his eyes widened. It was a large hollow, far larger than he had expected, and it was packed tight with men, now silent. Hundreds of them. Every single man from the valley below must be there.
The man who was addressing them was standing on a slight rise at one end of the hollow, so that all would be able to see him. He was a big man, not particularly tall, but broad and strong looking. He had a commanding presence, as he would have to have, Alex thought, to have called such a large gathering to order.
A meeting? On the mountain at midnight? He noticed suddenly that not one of the men held a lantern or any other light. It was true that the moonlight was bright enough, but it was surprising nonetheless that there were no lights. It was a clandestine meeting, then?
At first he thought he must be wrong. The broad, dark-haired speaker stepped down to give his place to a tall, thin man dressed all in black. He too spoke in Welsh, but it was clear from the way he spread his arms and from the tone of his voice when he began to speak that he was a preacher. And that he was praying. The men all bowed their heads reverently and remained silent throughout the lengthy prayer, only the occasional “Amen” interrupting the preacher’s voice.
A prayer meeting? Alex frowned and then felt amusement. He had been told that the Welsh were a devout people and that they were nonconformist almost to a man. But a mass prayer meeting at midnight when they should be at home asleep? He felt again the foreignness of this new home of his.
He probably would have retreated and left them to it if he had not spotted the woman. Like him, she was not part of the meeting. As far as he could see, its members were exclusively male. Like him, she was silently spying on it. She was hiding behind some large rocks a little lower than his hill and some distance away. She would not be able to see him. He edged over a little to his left to make sure.
He wondered what she was doing there and why she could not join the prayer meeting openly. Unless women were forbidden to do so. It looked as if that might be the case. It was impossible to tell if she was young or old. She wore a dark dress, which blended well with the rocks, and a lighter shawl, which was drawn up over her head. But she looked slim. She looked young. He watched her, intrigued, and ignored the feeling that he was spying on something that was none of his business.
Actually it was his business. This was his land. These were his people.
And then the prayer was finally at an end and the preacher stepped down to be replaced by the first speaker. Alex wished he could understand what was being said but realized that he must become accustomed to hearing Welsh spoken all around him. He was the intruder, after all. It was their country, not his.
And then suddenly he did understand. The language had switched to English—heavily accented but nevertheless quite understandable. The Welshman was introducing a speaker who was English. His fame had spread throughout the land and they were honored and privileged to have him bring his oratory to Wales. Would they all welcome Robert Mitchell?
They did so as a small, bespectacled, insignificant-looking young man took his place on the rise and lifted his arms for silence. He did not get it for some time. The men were applauding and whistling.
Robert Mitchell? Hell!
Robert Mitchell was one of the more famous of the Chartist orators who were traveling endlessly and tirelessly throughout the industrial districts of England and Wales these days, trying to persuade the people to put their signatures to the great Charter that was to have been presented to Parliament a few months ago but which still had not appeared there. The most famous orator of all, Henry Vincent, was in jail in Monmouth.
This was a Chartist meeting? Alex flattened himself against the hill suddenly and grew cold. He had not realized that Chartism had taken a hold at Cwmbran. Barnes, his agent, had never made mention of it. But Alex might have guessed, he supposed.
Robert Mitchell was speaking in a voice whose volume and resonant power belied his appearance. He was explaining simply and clearly what the object of the Charter was, what six basic demands it was to make of the government—the vote for every British male, annual Parliaments, secret ballots, and so on. Alex was quite familiar with the Charter’s demands. He was even sympathetic to them. But Chartism had somehow become the movement of the industrial working classes and it had become a movement of protest. Many feared that it had become revolutionary in its aims and methods.
This secret midnight meeting made him feel suddenly uneasy about Chartism. Why the secrecy if the aims were open and honest ones? He had never had to think too much about it before. It had never touched him closely. Now suddenly it was very close indeed.
The woman was still there, he noticed as Robert Mitchell harangued the crowd with the necessity of adding their signatures to the Charter and of paying their pennies to join the Chartist Association.
“There is power in numbers, my friends,” he shouted, stabbing the air with one fist and causing Alex to break out in a sweat. There was danger in the idea even if it might seem a reasonable one. Such was the power of the man’s oratory that his audience was responding to it with raised fists of their own and with shouts of assent. There were even some fervent amens.
“Everyone will sign the Charter.” The speech had ended and the stocky Welshman was back on the rise, though he still spoke in English out of deference to the guest speaker. “Unanimity is essential, men. Those who do not sign tonight or pay their pennies tonight will be asked why tomorrow.”
There seemed to be a definite threat in the words. But there were no dissenting voices, only universal enthusiasm as far as Alex could see. He would have a few questions to ask of Barnes tomorrow. But first, he would dearly like to know who the leader was, the strong, fiery Welshman who seemed to hold the men in the palm of his hand as well as Mitchell had. And who the preacher was.
The woman was moving away, cautiously leaving the protection of the rocks behind which she had been hiding and circling behind the rise that stood between her and the gathered men. The meeting would be breaking up soon. She was making her escape in good time. She was making her way in his direction, Alex could see.
He waited until she had passed the slope on which he lay, without looking up and seeing him, and then he followed her as she quickened her pace, her shawl held close about her head and shoulders. She had a long, lithe stride. She was undoubtedly a young woman. And a shapely one. His eyes moved over her from behind. Long legs. Shapely hips.
He waited until she hurried down into another hollow. Once out of it, he could see, she would be able to turn directly downward and would be in the town within a few minutes. He came up behind her, reaching a hand around to cover her mouth even as she sensed his presence and turned her head sharply. Large, frightened eyes looked into his while he hurried her behind some rocks so that they would be out of sight of anyone leaving the meeting early.
“You were not invited to the party?” he asked her, turning her so that her back was against the rocks. He removed his hand from her mouth but stood very close to her, his body almost against hers. Oh, yes, she was young. And beautiful. Her shawl had slipped from her head to reveal long hair worn loose. It looked almost black in the shadows. So did her eyes.
“Who are you?” She spoke to him in English, with a strongly lilting Welsh accent.
“It is a pity women are not invited to sign the Charter,” he said. “Would you have signed it and given them one more signature?”
She leaned her head back against the rock. Some of the terror had gone from her eyes, but she was breathing raggedly. “I don’t know who you are,” she said. “You are English. A spy? Did Mr. Barnes bring you in?”
“Who was the man leading the meeting?” he asked. “The dark, well-built Welshman?”
Her lips clamped together.
“He is from Cwmbran?” he asked. “He works there, perhaps?”
“I didn’t know him,” she
said. “I don’t know who he is. There are men from other valleys at the meeting. They are not all from Cwmbran.”
He nodded. He did not believe her for a moment. “And the preacher?” he asked. “The one who opened the meeting with a long prayer? Who is he?”
Again the clamped lips. “I don’t know him either,” she said when he waited for an answer.
“And I suppose,” he said, “you did not recognize any of the men at the meeting either. They were all from other valleys. They just happened to choose this site for their meeting.”
“I suppose so,” she said lamely after a while. But she lifted her chin. “Who are you? Have you come to make trouble? It was a peaceful meeting. There was no harm in it. It is merely a petition to be presented to Parliament.”
“‘There is power in numbers, my friends,’” he quoted softly. “The words can be made to sound almost seditious, can’t they?”
“There is power,” she said, “in a number of signatures. That was what he meant. Who are you?” The fright was back in her eyes and in her voice suddenly. “What do you want with me?”
It must have been sudden fright over her realization of the fact that she was alone on the mountain with a stranger, he thought. She tried to step forward and around him, but he stood his ground so that for a moment, before she flattened herself against the rock again, her body pressed against his. Firm, generous breasts, warm thighs. He set one hand against the rock beside her head.
“And who are you?” he asked. “Are you from another valley too and don’t know yourself?”
Her chin came up but she said nothing for a while. “I shall scream,” she said.
“Then I shall do this.” He leaned forward and set his mouth over hers. But it was not a wise move. Her mouth was warm and soft. And he too was suddenly aware of how very alone they were, surrounded by shadows and cool night air and the droning of insects. Seduction had not been on his mind when he had pursued her and was definitely unwise under the circumstances. He drew his head back a few inches.
Her eyes were wide with terror and indignation. But she was a woman of some courage, he realized. Her chin stayed up and her eyes remained steady on his and she got herself silently under control.
“My guess is that you would not be overeager, anyway, to make your presence on the mountain known to any of the men back there,” he said. “I have the feeling that they would be a trifle annoyed. Who are you?”
“Let me go,” she said. “Any one of them would pound you into the ground for touching me. But I’ll not betray you if you will not betray me.”
“Ah,” he said, “an amicable bargain.” He took one step back from her. “So all those men would punish me for frightening you and stealing a kiss from you, would they? All those men you do not know.”
She ignored his last words. “I was not frightened,” she said.
He grinned at her and wished that circumstances were such that he could attempt seduction. It would be very sweet. He thought ruefully of how long it had been since he had had a woman. Too long. But now was not the time.
He stepped to one side so that she could make her escape. “If I were you,” he said, “I would stay off the mountains this late at night. There are too many dangers for a woman alone.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I shall remember that.”
“And I shall remember this night,” he said, “and some of the faces of the men at the Chartist meeting. Perhaps I will see those faces again one day—in the other valleys. I believe I may see yours a little closer than that.”
“Not if I can help it,” she said.
He grinned and gestured to the downward slope just beyond the shadows in which they stood. “Go,” he said, “before anyone else comes down and sees that you are out of your bed at this hour and in a place that no woman has any business being.”
He watched her make the effort not to bolt like a frightened rabbit. She lifted her shawl over her head again, her eyes on his, and then walked past him and out into the open, her back straight.
“Good night, maiden of Cwmbran,” he said softly.
She did not answer him. He noticed her pace quicken and her head come down as she hurried through the hollow and turned at its end to take the steep slope down to the town. She did not look back though he could almost see that her back was bristling with panic lest he was following her and was about to pounce on her again.
And so he was no farther forward than he had been before he caught up to her. She was a woman who could keep her mouth shut. He just hoped that she would keep it shut concerning him too. He was not sure that he wanted it known that he had unwittingly come upon a Chartist meeting. He did not wish to become embroiled in local politics when he had set foot in Cwmbran for the first time only hours before.
He should not have stopped the woman or spoken to her, he thought now that it was too late to do differently. Or kissed her. He should certainly not have done that. A fine first impression it would give. He was thankful that she had been where she was not supposed to be and would therefore be reluctant to tell anyone of the experience—even when she knew who he was, which would surely happen soon.
But he should not have kissed her. Brief and unplanned and one-sided as it had been, it had aroused needs in him that he normally kept well under control. Only two long-term mistresses in the almost six years since his wife’s death, and none at all since his engagement to Lorraine a year ago—an engagement they had broken off only the month before.
Strange! He had kissed Lorraine several times, usually at greater length than he had kissed the unknown Welshwoman. But never once had he become as aroused physically as he had now.
It was just as well, he thought ruefully, striding with unwise speed across the hill in the direction of Glanrhyd Castle, that he had some distance to walk and that the air was now distinctly cool.
Robert Mitchell. Chartists. There is power in numbers, my friends. Everyone will sign the Charter. Hell! What had he walked into? He had come to Wales for some peace and quiet after a broken engagement. Had he walked unwittingly into a nest of hornets?
* * *
Siân Jones held the corners of her shawl tightly in each hand and tried not to run as she hurried down the slope to the town. It took every ounce of willpower not to do so and not to look over her shoulder. Her back crawled with panic. Every moment she expected to feel his hand again, clamping down on her shoulder or over her mouth.
Who was he? Whoever was he?
At first, foolishly, she had thought he was the devil. There had been the large, strong hand over her mouth, the swirl of a dark cloak, the largeness of his body, which he had placed between her and freedom. But a strange devil who had looked like an angel when she had finally seen his face. Even in the shadows his hair had shone very blond. And his eyes were light—blue or gray. She guessed they were blue. And he spoke with a very refined English accent.
Who on earth was he? Some spy? The country was full of them. And full of soldiers too. He might be a soldier, though he had not been wearing a uniform. He had been sent to spy on the meeting. And he had seen it. He had seen them all there—Owen, Emrys, Huw, Iestyn, Grandad—oh, dear Lord, Grandad. And the Reverend Llewellyn. He did not know their names. She had told him nothing. But it would not take him long to find out. Owen most of all. Owen was the first one he had asked about. Oh, dear Lord, Owen had led the meeting. The spy would have had a good look at him even in the darkness.
She was almost running despite herself by the time she reached the valley and turned to hurry along one of the streets and to let herself quietly into one of the darkened houses. No one would catch her. Gran slept upstairs and would not come down even if she was awake. Grandad and Emrys would not be home for a while. Siân undressed hastily in the kitchen and drew on her nightdress before diving into the cupboard bed that had been hers when she first came to Grandad’
s at the age of seventeen and that had been hers again since Gwyn’s death and the death of their son.
She lay shaking beneath the covers, waiting for her grandfather and her uncle to come safely home. Though there was nothing safe now about home. Tomorrow perhaps they would all be rounded up. What would happen to them? They could not all be taken off to jail, surely. And they could not all be dismissed from their jobs. There would be no one left to work except the women. All the men had gone up the mountain to the meeting, even those who disapproved of the Charter. They had all gone up to hear the famous Mr. Mitchell.
And she had gone up out of fear and curiosity—she always seemed to have more of the latter than any other women she knew. She had wanted to know what it was all about and if there was any basis to the hostility the owners and the government felt toward what was apparently a peaceful and lawful movement. But she remembered the blond Englishman repeating something Mr. Mitchell had said—there is power in numbers, my friends. Of course, when he repeated that to whoever had sent him, it would sound seditious enough, as he had said.
And Owen. Siân remembered what Owen had said and shivered. Everyone will sign the Charter. Those who do not sign tonight or pay their pennies tonight will be asked why tomorrow.
Oh, Owen, Owen. He surely would be thrown out of work tomorrow. He surely would be arrested and clapped in jail. He would be hauled off to Newport or to Monmouth for trial—trial by those who would interpret his words and Mr. Mitchell’s as constituting treason.
The English spy had seen Owen’s face clearly. Perhaps he would be unable to identify Grandad or the others who had been in the crowd, but Owen he had both seen and heard. And the Reverend Llewellyn, who did not even approve of the Charter.
