Longing

by Mary Balogh

  “No,” she said.

  “And you?” He watched her closely. “Wouldn’t you like me to stop them, Siân?”

  She hesitated for a long time. She licked her lips. “No,” she said. “You would only make it worse.”

  “How?” he frowned.

  “If you came to the rescue of a man being punished,” she said, “it might be thought that he had appealed to you, that he was your friend. Perhaps your informer. It would go the worse with him.”

  “Informer?” His voice was angry, though it was not against her his anger was directed. “Am I so much the enemy, Siân, that anyone who speaks to me or tells me anything is an informer?”

  “Please.” She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a few moments. “If they were out last night, it must have been to give a warning. If they come back again in a few nights’ time to punish, don’t interfere. Don’t go out there. Please? Promise me?”

  “Siân,” he said, “it is my duty to protect my people. How can I—”

  “Please.” She was on her feet and was gazing down at him. “You must promise me. You must. Please.”

  My God, he thought, throwing down his napkin and getting to his feet to draw her firmly into his arms, what was this all about? What did she know? What were the Scotch Cattle up to that had made her so frightened? It was someone she knew. But who? The brother-in-law again? He could believe that she would be frantic with worry if she thought the boy was going to have to endure another of those whippings. And doubtless this time he would have to take the full number of strokes.

  But how could he promise her what she asked? It went entirely against the grain. But there was so little he could give her. And he loved her.

  “Please?” She raised her face to his. Her eyes were large and luminous.

  “I promise,” he said, and watched in some dismay as she bit at her upper lip, lost control of her facial muscles, and began to cry.

  “What is it?” He drew her face against his cravat and rocked her. “What is it, my love? Tell me.” She was as cold as ice.

  “No,” she wailed. “It is nothing.”

  He lifted her face after a while and dried her eyes with his handkerchief before handing it to her so that she could blow her nose.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t often do that. I must be getting back to the nursery.”

  “Not until the redness has gone from your eyes,” he said, setting the handkerchief on the table and drawing her back into his arms. “I see that it is something you cannot tell me. We will leave it at that, then. But never feel that you cannot come to me, Siân. I am always here. Kiss me?”

  She nodded.

  He kissed her until he felt warmth flow back into her body. And then he kissed her some more. And realized something that had been nagging at his consciousness for days. This would not do. This having her but not having her simply would not do at all.

  He could not live without her, he thought.

  It was not just that he was in love with her. He loved her. She was the air he breathed.

  He would not live without her. But she would not be his mistress. That left only . . .

  But that was an impossibility. He was the Marquess of Craille. She was the illegitimate child of a baronet and an ironworker’s daughter.

  It was an impossibility.

  But so was living without her.

  “I must go back to the nursery,” she said.

  “I’ll send word that you will be another hour,” he said. “Come to bed with me, Siân. Come and make love with me.”

  She shook her head. “It would be sordid,” she said.

  Yes, it would. Dammit, it would.

  He kissed her once more and released her. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean disrespect.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “for luncheon.” And she was gone.

  No, he thought, walking to the window and glazing sightlessly out, he could not live without her. But neither could he live with her like this. She was right. The snatched and very occasional lovemakings that they could doubtless enjoy over the coming months or years would be sordid. Up on the mountain or in his own house—with Verity beneath the same roof. It had not been sordid that first time because it had been spontaneous. It had been beautiful. But that could not be repeated.

  What did she know? His thoughts returned to the mystery that had been gnawing at him all morning. Why was she so frightened? He cursed himself for promising to stay away if and when the Scotch Cattle returned to mete out punishment in a few nights’ time.

  * * *

  Angharad was sniveling as she dusted. She cuffed ineffectually at her eyes when Josiah Barnes entered the house, and turned her face away.

  “What is the matter with you?” He frowned, her misery breaking in on his more than good mood.

  “Siân Jones is going to be whipped by Scotch Cattle,” she said, sobbing and gulping in the middle of the sentence, “and it is all my fault.”

  “How so?” he asked, pulling off his boots. “Don’t talk nonsense, woman.”

  “Someone has been putting about the rumor that she told the marquess about the meeting,” she said. “But it was you, Mr. Barnes, and I am the one who told you. If I had not told you, he would not have known and no one would have thought it was Siân who told.”

  “If people believe stupid rumors,” Barnes said, “it is not your fault, Angharad. And there is no stopping Scotch Cattle once they get something into their heads. It is unfortunate for Siân Jones, but that is the way things go. She could avoid the punishment. I hear she was warned not to continue her job.”

  Angharad wailed afresh. “But she went to work this morning,” she said. “I saw her pass the house.”

  Yes. Barnes had to school his features not to smile openly. Yes, he had seen her walk past the ironworks.

  “She is my friend,” Angharad said. “I think I should say something, Mr. Barnes. I think I should tell Owen Parry. Perhaps he can stop them.”

  Josiah Barnes looked at her, thunderstruck. “Tell Parry?” he said. “Tell him what, Angharad? Tell him that it was not Siân Jones who was the informer, but you? Do you want to be the next one to receive midnight callers? Do you want to have your back bared up on the mountain and strips torn off it with Scotch Cattle whips? Have some sense, woman.”

  Angharad whimpered.

  “Listen,” he said, striding across the room to her, swallowing his distaste at her wet, reddened face and drawing her into his arms, “Siân Jones is asking for trouble by coming to work. She is being foolishly stubborn. Nothing is your fault, Angharad. Dry your eyes now and get upstairs and no more of this silly talk about going to Parry. I would not like you with a scarred back. I’ll talk to Craille and see if he can persuade Siân Jones to stay home for a few days.”

  “Will you, Mr. Barnes?” she said, scrubbing at her eyes with the duster and gazing worshipfully up at him. “There is kind you are.”

  Coupling with a woman was too strenuous and too mindless a business to allow for much thought. But elation helped Josiah Barnes enjoy the exercise with more than his usual vigor. Sometimes imagining that it was Siân Jones’s body beneath him helped increase his enjoyment, but today he did not need to do that.

  His little scheme was succeeding very well indeed. He had never for one moment expected that Scotch Cattle would be brought in to discipline her. Or that the stubborn wench was also so stupid.

  She had gone to work this morning. If only Craille did not get word of why Scotch Cattle had made their visit last night, she would continue coming.

  She would get the whips. Perhaps worse. Who knew what Scotch Cattle would do with a woman once they had her on the mountain and their blood was up?

  Then he would see if she would hold her chin up and look at him as if he was a worm beneath her feet, Barnes thought as he lay spent a
nd breathless on Angharad’s body.

  Then he would see.

  “Oh, Mr. Barnes.” Angharad’s voice was weak with tears again. “There is wonderful you are. And you will talk to the marquess?”

  “Yes, I’ll talk to him,” he said, rolling off her. It would take weeks for the cuts and welts to heal on Siân Jones’s back. She would carry the scars to the grave. There would be no wedding next week. He smiled. “You are a good woman, Angharad. Rest a while and I’ll give it to you again.”

  19

  IT had been a mistake to come to choir practice, Siân thought wearily as she stood in the church porch after it was over, staring out at mist and rain. Though several other people were hesitating to step outside, as she was, and the porch was not large, there was space all about her. As if she was in some way untouchable—and invisible. No one’s eyes quite touched on her and had not all evening. Her neighbors in the pew had both been intent on talking with the people on their other sides when they were not singing.

  It all felt sickeningly familiar. The pariah.

  Though it was not quite hostility she sensed, but more a deep embarrassment. How did one speak to someone who had been warned by Scotch Cattle the night before, after all? Did one pretend one did not know when everyone always knew—as they were expected to know—whom they had visited? She supposed that most people felt a strange sort of fascination with the knowledge that she had gone to work as usual today—and an inability to look into her eyes with the knowledge that she was facing Scotch Cattle whips in two nights’ time if she continued to go to work.

  There was blank terror in the thought that threatened to bring a return of last night’s discomfort when she had been able to breathe in but not out.

  She had been almost unable to sing. Or to concentrate on the Reverend Llewellyn’s instructions. Or on his lengthy prayer for peace and good sense and an acceptance of the will of God that had preceded the practice.

  She ought not to have come.

  A hand clamped onto her shoulder suddenly and squeezed hard. She had not realized how much she needed to be touched until she felt it there.

  “Home is it for us, then, Siân?” her grandfather said, his voice too loud and hearty. “Up with your hood, fach. A wicked, rainy night it is. Gran will have a pot of hot tea waiting for us.”

  She smiled at him and did as she was told. Owen had not come for her before the practice as he usually did. She had walked to chapel alone, her grandfather having gone on ahead. Owen had not come to practice either.

  “Grandad,” she said as they left the chapel and she took his offered arm, “this is all rubbing off on you, isn’t it? That is the worst of it. If I were the only one involved, it would be just. I don’t want you hated too.”

  “You are not hated, fach,” he said, “except perhaps by those few who believe that you informed against your own people. Most people admire your courage and think you the most foolish woman on God’s earth.”

  “As you do,” she said.

  “As I do.” He patted her hand.

  “Perhaps”—she drew a deep breath—“perhaps you would prefer it if I moved away, Grandad.”

  “Moved away?” His voice, surprisingly, was thunderous.

  “I have brought trouble on you,” she said, “and on Gran. And I can’t do the one thing that would smooth everything over again. I can’t, Grandad. I cannot give in to threats. But perhaps they will destroy the house or the furniture. They sometimes do. I would never forgive myself if that happened.”

  “Siân”—his voice was harsh—“you must do what you must do. It will break your grandmother’s heart, but she will respect you for it. And so will I. But you will not leave us. That would break Gran’s spirit. If we have learned one thing in this life, Gran and I, it is that we cannot live the lives of those dearest to us. We can only love them no matter what they do. We learned the hard way. We learned too late in the case of your mother. We will not let you go. Even if it were true, what some are saying, we would not stop loving you.”

  “Grandad,” she whispered, “oh, Grandad.” She drew a deep breath, fighting tears. I am so frightened, she wanted to say. So terrified. But that was her burden alone. There was one thing she could do to avert what was ahead of her, to put the terror behind her. But she chose not to do it. Her terror was her own personal burden, then. She did not know if she most feared being dragged away by those large masked men—there was something bone-weakeningly horrifying about a masked face—or being spread out on the ground and confined and whipped.

  Terror caught at her breathing again. She might have appealed to Alexander. Oh, dear God, she might have told him and he might have been able to intervene to save her. Instead, she had made him promise not to leave Glanrhyd Castle to investigate the next night visit of the Scotch Cattle.

  He had promised.

  They were just turning in at the gate of their house when they were hailed and turned to find Owen hurrying toward them.

  “Hywel, Siân,” he said in greeting. “I had a meeting. It went on longer than expected. Siân? How are you?”

  She had not seen him since the night before. He would know, of course, just as everyone knew. She had expected to see him earlier. She had thought he would come to see her as soon as he had finished the day shift. But he had had a meeting. A meeting, it seemed, was more important than she was. In one way it was consoling. She was burdened by guilt over Owen.

  She nodded her head and said nothing.

  “Come inside, man,” Hywel said. “It is madness to stand out here in the rain.”

  “I want to talk privately with Siân,” Owen said. “Come and have a cup of tea with me, Siân. I will treat her with the proper respect, Hywel.”

  “See that you do,” her grandfather said sternly. “These fists of mine can still do damage, Owen Parry, even if yours can do more.”

  Owen wrapped an arm about her waist as they walked away. He said nothing while they hurried, head down against the rain and the wind, toward his house. He took her cloak from her when they were inside, shook it out, had hung it behind the door. He did the same with his coat before turning to face her.

  “Madwoman!” he said, reaching for her and taking her upper arms with hands that would leave bruises behind. His face was tight with anger. “What is this I hear, Siân? You went to work today?”

  “Yes.” She came against his chest and forgot that the burden was all her own. He was so very reassuringly large.

  “Then all I can say,” he said, “is that you deserve what you will surely get. You know, of course, that they tie you down. You know that they take the clothes from your back. You know that the whips are of leather and often draw blood. You went up after Iestyn and saw it all. Do you think they will strike more lightly because you are a woman? They will not. They believe your crime to be worse than merely refusing to sign a document or join an organization. You will doubtless be given the full twenty strokes, if not more.”

  Despite herself, she whimpered and pressed herself closer to him.

  But he still had her by the arms and moved her away from the sanctuary of his body to shake her violently until her head flopped on her neck and she was dizzy and disoriented.

  “What will it take?” He was shouting at her. “What will it take to tame you, you bloody foolish, stubborn woman? You want to go over my knee, is that it? Right now? I have a heavy hand, Siân Jones, and will not spare it. You will be lying on your stomach on your bed tonight. Let’s get on with it, then.”

  He kept his bruising grip on one arm and dragged her toward a chair.

  “Owen”—she spoke coldly—“if you lay one hand in violence on me, I swear I will have you before a magistrate. I am not answerable to you. And why must men—some men—assume that women are to be controlled by pain? I will not be controlled by it or coerced by the fear of it. I will not give in to threats. And you will not save
me from the whips even if you take me over your lap now and beat me until I have to lie on my stomach all night.”

  His hold on her did not relax as he stood quite still and stared down at her, his face white and set with anger. Then he drew her against him and pressed her head hard against his shoulder.

  “Siân,” he whispered. “Cariad, cariad. Why will you be so foolish? Why will you not let me hold you and protect you and guide you as a man should be allowed to do for his woman?”

  “Perhaps because I am a thinking person as well as a woman,” she said sadly.

  He rocked her against him wordlessly.

  “Owen,” she said after a while, “you know some of the Scotch Cattle, don’t you?”

  “No one knows who they are, cariad,” he said.

  “But you do.” She lifted her head to look earnestly into his face. “You are the leader. You must know. Besides, I cannot forget how kind you were when it was Iestyn’s turn. I know he was given ten lashes, but I know too that you had put in a good word for him and had reduced the sentence. I know you did that. You cannot convince me that you don’t know any of them.”

  He shook his head.

  “Owen,” she said, “you know I am innocent. You know I said nothing to the Marquess of Craille. You know I would not so betray my own people. You know I am no informer.”

  “Cariad,” he said, “I know it. Other people do not.”

  “Then tell them,” she said. “You have influence. People listen to you. Tell them. I don’t want to be whipped. Oh, please, I don’t want to be whipped.”

  His face turned paler. “Bloody stubborn woman,” he said, the anger back in his voice. “You can save yourself, Siân. Even though you went to work today. If you do not go tomorrow, they will not come back. Even if you do not go the next day.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Fach.” He was whispering. “I cannot save you.”

  “Please?” She spread her hands on his chest. “Tell them I was not the informer, Owen. It hurts to know that people believe that. That is what hurts more than anything.”