Truly

by Mary Balogh

  He stared at her with his cold blue eyes and impassive face. She did not care what he thought of her insolence or what he would do about it. And then he swung off his cloak and slung it over the rough wood of the gate. He hung his hat over the gatepost and pulled off his frock coat.

  "What are you doing?" Her eyes widened.

  His coat joined his cloak over the gate. He was undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. "It would seem," he said, "that there is only one man available to do the job."

  Marged snapped her teeth together when she realized that she was gaping. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no, you don't. I don't want your help. Get off my land."

  He looked at her coolly as he rolled up one immaculately white shirtsleeve above his elbow. "The last time I checked, Marged," he said, "it was my land."

  "I have paid my rent on it," she said. "I was not even a day late."

  But she had lost her audience. He was striding out into the field. His boots were so highly polished that he could probably see his face in them when he bent down, she thought. And he was walking into a bare field with them? His trousers were dark and obviously very expensive and hugged his legs well enough to show that they lacked nothing in shape or muscle. His shirt was flapping in the breeze but was anchored at his very slim waist, where it was tucked into his trousers. Even when the breeze died for a moment, the breadth of his back and shoulders prevented the shirt from collapsing about him. The hair on his arms was as dark as that on his head.

  Marged caught the direction of her thoughts and snapped her teeth together once more. She strode after him. This was her farm and this was her job. But by the time she came up to him, he was already bending down and picking up stones and tossing them into the wagon that she would have the horse pull away when the task was done or when it was full. Well, she thought vengefully, leaning down beside him and resuming her work without a word, she hoped he would get filthy. She hoped that his back would get so sore from the unaccustomed manual labor that he would be unable to straighten up when he was finished. She hoped he would never come back, for fear that she would have some other heavy task awaiting him.

  And damn him, he was moving faster than she. And he was picking up two stones with each hand, except for the larger ones, as Eurwyn had used to be able to do.

  She could not believe how quickly they finished. They worked for perhaps a couple of hours, stopping only at the end of every second row to drink from the water jar she had brought out with her after luncheon, not speaking a word to each other. And it was done. She had expected to work until dark and even then perhaps not be quite finished.

  And then, when they were back in the yard together, she watched as he prepared one of the horses and led it out to the field, hitched it to the wagon, and led it to the stone pile, which he must have seen for himself at one corner of the distant pasture. Eurwyn had used the stones to build some walls. His father before him had used them to build the pigpen.

  Marged was tempted while he was gone to rush into the house to wash her hands and face, to comb her hair, and to change her apron. But she would be damned before she would do anything to make herself look more attractive in his eyes.

  Besides, she thought, watching him in some satisfaction as he brought the horse back, he was not looking very immaculate himself any longer. His boots were dull with dust and caked with soil, his trousers looked gray rather than black, and his shirt was liberally stained with dirt. And there were circles of wetness beneath his arms. His face and hands looked grimy.

  She had wondered at one time whether he would look so splendid if he were not dressed so immaculately. She had her answer, she thought grudgingly. Geraint would be beautiful even if he still lived up on the moors, scratching a living mainly from poaching. But she was glad he was dirty and sweaty. She hoped that he felt uncomfortable. She hoped that tomorrow he would be too stiff to move.

  He came and stood in front of her, rolling down his shirtsleeves as he did so. And he spoke for the first time in hours. "What do you know about the destruction of the Penfro gate on Saturday night?" he asked.

  Her heart skipped a beat, but she had prepared herself for this.

  "The Penfro gate?" She raised her eyebrows.

  "Rebecca brought glorious destruction to it," he said. "But I suppose you know no more about it than anyone else in Glynderi or on any of the farms?"

  "No," she said.

  He nodded curtly. "I thought not," he said. "I would have you know, Marged, that the men who join Rebecca play a dangerous game."

  "But there are no men here," she said. "What does this have to do with me?"

  He was buttoning his waistcoat with dirty hands over a dirty shirt. And it looked so deliciously expensive.

  "And it will become more dangerous," he said, "as more players are added. Special constables. Soldiers. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes," she said. "You are issuing a warning that I am to carry to the men living about here." She looked directly back into his eyes. She would not allow him to play cat and mouse with her.

  "Anyone who is caught," he said, "will be dealt with harshly. You know all about that, Marged."

  She breathed in very slowly through her nose. Oh, yes. And there would be no mercy. She knew all about that too. His eyes were icy cold.

  "Anyone who is willing to put an end to it," he said, "would be doing everyone else a favor. And would be compensated for any—unpopularity he might have to endure. Or she."

  She was not quite sure she was hearing him correctly. But oh, yes, she was. "An informer?" she whispered. "You are looking for an informer?"

  "Shall we call him—or her—a friend of the people?" he asked.

  She should have looked back at him as coldly as he was looking at her. She realized that afterward, when it was too late. But then she would not have denied herself the satisfaction of what she actually did, though it was less wise. Before she could think, before he could know what she was about to do, her hand whipped across his face, turning it sharply to one side, and causing him to lose his impassivity and wince quite noticeably.

  "Get away from here!" she cried. "Get out."

  He picked up his frock coat, drew it on, and buttoned it, watching her all the while. His cloak followed. And then he picked up his hat. She watched, fascinated, as one of his cheeks reddened into a scarlet hand. And she thought of Rebecca as he had been at the Penfro gate, both arms raised, holding a few hundred impatient men in check while he talked courteously to the gatekeeper and his wife and gave them time to remove all their personal belongings from the house and make their way to safety. She thought of him bringing her home. And kissing her.

  And yet this man, cold and arrogant and cruel, and others like him were prepared to use their wealth and their power to persuade someone to inform on him. It would take only one. She understood then why Rebecca had refused to tell her who he was or where he lived and why he had refused to remove his mask even in the darkness. Torture would not drag the information from her, but he was wise to trust no one.

  The Earl of Wyvern turned to leave without another word to her. She watched him go. But she could not let him disappear without saying the words that stuck in her throat but must be spoken if she was to retain her self-respect.

  "Geraint," she called, and realized too late that she had used his given name.

  He turned.

  "Thank you," she said, tossing back her head. "Thank you for the help." She was pleased to hear that she sounded more as if she were telling him to go to hell.

  He nodded and touched his hat to her and was on his way.

  He felt dirty. He looked down at his grimy hands and grimaced at the sight of ten blackened fingernails. His shirt felt uncomfortably wet under the arms. He could smell himself. His boots—he looked down at them and winced— might well be irredeemable. His cheek was still stinging.

  One thing was clear. He could not pay any more calls today.

  But he grinned unexpectedly. He felt rather wonderful. He had enjo
yed the morning visits, much as he had expected them to be distasteful. It had given him a perverse sort of pleasure to tyrannize all the people who had expected him to by a tyrant and who had repulsed all his efforts to be otherwise. And it had amused him to look into blank, stupid faces—only Marged had offered any variation on that theme—and to remember many of the same faces blackened for disguise and the arms belonging to the faces smashing a gate and a house.

  It seemed so long since there had been any real excitement in his life. This suited him perfectly, this playing a dual role.

  And Marged. He fingered his cheek rather ruefully for a moment. He had given up feeling guilty for bringing her home and holding her close on Saturday night. And even for kissing her. If she was going to be reckless enough to follow Rebecca and then to ride home with a stranger and allow him to kiss her—and even kiss him back—then she must bear the consequences. Far from feeling continued guilt, he had enjoyed just now looking into her eyes, keeping his own cold, and imagining the look on her face if she knew that it was he, Geraint Penderyn, Earl of Wyvern, who had kissed her.

  Probably at this moment he would have two stinging cheeks instead of one, plus two black eyes and a smashed nose. He could remember once when he had persuaded her to sneak into Tegfan park with him and he had been surprised by a mantrap that had been moved to a new location and had almost caught his leg in its steel jaws. She had hauled him away, and though it was he who had almost been hurt, not her, she had pummeled him with her fists and kicked his shins with her shod feet—and then cried all over him.

  He grinned once more. He was feeling more and more like that boy again.

  And then his little reincarnation suddenly appeared, tripping along at his side. Idris Parry. Geraint looked down at him in some surprise. He would have expected the child to keep his distance after their encounter in the park.

  "Idris," he said, "how are you?"

  "I am to have new boots," the child said.

  "Are you?" Geraint glanced down at the pitiful shreds of boots the boy wore. It was amazing that they stayed on his feet. "That will be pleasant."

  "And my sisters are to have new dresses," the child said.

  "Very nice," Geraint said.

  "My dada has money," Idris said. "And I know why. And I know where it came from."

  "Oh?" Geraint made his voice chilly. He hoped the father had not been that indiscreet. All they needed was to have a blabbing child in Glynderi.

  "My dada has money because he went with Rebecca," Idris said while Geraint closed his eyes briefly. "And the money came from Rebecca."

  Geraint stopped walking and gazed sternly down at the child. He clasped his hands at his back and found himself hoping that his face was not too noticeably dirty.

  "What is this, Idris?" he said. "Do you realize what you are saying and to whom? Do you realize that you could get your father into serious trouble if I believed you? Do you realize that he could be sent away for a long, long time and you would be left with only your mother and your sisters?"

  "I wanted to go too," the child said, "but Dada would not let me. He told me he would take the strap to me if I followed him."

  Geraint took a deep breath and stooped down on his haunches. "I should think so too," he said. "Now listen to me, Idris. I do not want to hear you telling such stories about your father again. And I do not want to hear of you telling them to anyone else. If I do, I might be tempted to take a strap to you myself for lying. And I have big muscles and a heavy hand. I will pretend I have not heard you today. Do you understand me?"

  "But I did go out," Idris said. "And I saw her."

  "Her?"

  "Rebecca," the child said. "I saw her."

  God damn it all to hell! "She probably looked very frightening," he said. "In future you will know to stay safe in your bed at nights, Idris." What were the parents about, allowing the child to wander at night? And yet he remembered that he had done it himself, eluding his mother while she slept.

  "I want to help her," Idris said. "I want to help her because she helps us to fight against the bad men. And because she gives money to people who are poor. And because she is not what she seems to be." He was looking directly into Geraint's eyes, his own wide and guileless.

  And dear God in heaven, what was this?

  "I want to help her if I can," the child said again. For the first time he looked almost frightened. His next words were whispered. "I know who she is."

  Dear Lord God!

  "Then it were best that you kept the knowledge to yourself, lad," he said. "Go home to your mam now. It looks as if it might rain." It did not.

  "Yes." Idris nodded. "But I want to help her. If there is anything I can do."

  Geraint rested his hand lightly on the boy's head. He was not sure what kind of communication was passing between them. Not sure at all. Or perhaps he just did not want to know.

  "Go home now," he said quietly.

  But before he straightened up, he did something that took him quite by surprise. He wrapped his arms around the thin and ragged little figure and hugged him close.

  "Life can be dangerous for little boys," he said, "even when they are very brave little boys. Wait until you grow up, lad, and then you can show the world your mettle."

  He felt almost embarrassed when he finally stood up. But the little urchin did not linger. He was off up the hill again, bounding along with all the energy of childhood.

  But before he did so, he gave Geraint one wide-eyed look that could surely not be misinterpreted. It was a look of pure devotion.

  Hell and a million damnations!

  Chapter 16

  Tuesday was wet and windy. But Wednesday was sunny and even warm, and the gentler breeze dried the ground by noon. The sky was clear and blue. The only trouble with the weather, Marged thought as she stood at the pigpen, her arms along the top of it, keeping Nellie company, was that it would be a light night with moon and stars.

  Aled had passed the word along yesterday that tonight they would march with Rebecca again.

  It would be a great deal easier to cross the hills. They would be able to see where they were setting their feet. But it would be a great deal easier too for them to be seen. Word had it that the Earl of Wyvern and Sir Hector Webb and the other landowners had called out special constables and that they had sent for soldiers. And of course they had issued threats and were searching for informers.

  Marged felt far more nervous than she had felt the first time. She found it difficult to settle to anything all day. Her nerves were tense with fear. Fear for herself and fear for her friends. Anyone who is caught will be dealt with harshly, he had said. You know all about that, Marged.

  She shivered and tickled one of Nellie's ears. Yes, she was mortally afraid of being caught, of being locked in prison, of being tried and sentenced, of… But fear was not going to hold her back. Fear was necessary for one's own safety, Eurwyn had told her once. But it could also be one's greatest enemy, making one a coward, preventing one from doing what one knew should be done.

  No, it was not going to hold her back.

  But she feared too for Rebecca. Mrs. Williams had heard—probably from Mr. Harley—that they were offering a reward of five hundred pounds for his capture. Five hundred pounds! It was a vast fortune. Would anyone be tempted? Anyone who knew who he was? There must be some people who knew. But a betrayer would not have to know his identity. He would only have to betray the time and place of the next gate smashing and be sure that constables were lying in wait.

  They would catch Rebecca and others too as a bonus.

  "Nellie, love," she said, rubbing the pig's snout and straightening up resolutely, "there is butter to be churned and you are keeping me gossiping here. For shame!"

  She punished the butter inside the dairy to alleviate her fears. But it was not all fear. There was the inevitable excitement too. Saturday night had been incredibly exhilarating. Although there had been destruction, it had all been done in such a disciplined mann
er that it had not seemed a thing of horror. And they had accomplished something, she believed. They had shown that there were limits to which the poor could be pushed without fighting back. They had shown that they were not without spirit and courage.

  And there was the other excitement too. She had to admit it to herself. She would see him again. Rebecca. She had been so very impressed with his air of command, with his dignity, with his compassion for the gatekeepers of Penfro. And she had hugged to herself since Saturday her memories of him as a man. It had been a magical ride they had shared and a magical kiss. She knew she would remember both for the rest of her life.

  Her hands stilled on the butter churn. She was behaving like a young girl over her first kiss. But it was not a happy comparison. She thought of the eighteen-year-old Geraint kissing her sixteen-year-old self and the wonder of it and the conviction that the love she had felt would brighten all the rest of her life. And she thought of him as he had been on Monday, handsome and virile in his shirtsleeves while he picked stones, cold-eyed and autocratic as he spoke afterward about Rebecca and her followers.

  She did not want to think about Geraint. She wanted to think of Rebecca. And she wanted tonight to be a repetition of Saturday night. But she knew that something so wonderful could not be repeated—just as there had been no repetition when she was sixteen. The next time she had met Geraint he had tried to… Somehow, thinking back on it now, it did not seem so very dreadful. He had tried to make love to her. At the time she had known nothing. She had had her head and her heart full of sweet romance and kisses and young love. She had known nothing about the yearnings of the body, nothing about the carnal act of love. She had been sickened and terrified.

  She wondered what would have happened if she had known more. Would she still have stopped him? Would he have stopped? Would they have loved, there on the hillside? And what would have happened afterward? Would that have been the end of it? Or the beginning?