by Mary Balogh
"Marged? What is the matter, girl?" Her mother-in-law's voice brought her back to reality with a start, and she realized that she was clutching the butter churn and staring into space.
"Oh." She laughed. "I am taking a breather, Mam, that is all. Is Gran still sleeping?"
"You go in and have a cup of tea, fach" her mother-in-law said. "There is some warm in the pot and nice and strong. I'll take over here, is it? You are working too hard, Marged."
Marged relinquished her place at the butter churn with some guilt and some relief. "A cup of tea sounds lovely, Mam," she said. "Thank you."
She must expect nothing of tonight except a long, hard march and the smashing of a gate at the end of it. And a long, hard march home. She must not think of the danger. And she must not expect that Rebecca would even notice her tonight, let alone give her a ride home. And kiss her.
It would be enough just to see him and to dream of how he must look beneath the rather bizarre disguise.
Except that she knew it would not be enough at all.
Some special constables had been sworn in by the magistrates of the area. A few more had been sent from Carmarthen. Geraint knew that more attacks were expected this week. The logical gates to attack were the ones along the same road as the Penfro gate. Constables had been quietly posted at two of them in the hope that at least one of them would be the next target.
And so tonight the gates to go would be two on the road south of Glynderi, across the river. They were strategic gates. The farmers had to travel south to the lime kilns. Many of them would have to pass these two gates. And they belonged to two different trusts—two tolls to pay even though there were no more than two miles between the gates.
He wondered tonight what he had stirred up. His fellow landowners were outraged and determined at all costs to stamp out the protests. The constables had guns. So would the soldiers if and when they came. Perhaps he had begun something that could only lead to violence and defeat. After all, very few protests or uprisings against the established ruling classes ever succeeded. The chances were strong that this one would not.
But he must pin his hopes on the fact that this time the protesters had a champion among the ruling classes, although neither side knew it yet. His fondest hope was that one of the London newspapers to which he had written as Rebecca would find the information intriguing enough to send down a reporter. If a London newspaper would print the truth and combine it with the rather romantic story of Rebecca and her daughters, perhaps public sympathy would be enlisted. And if any of the carefully chosen public figures to whom Rebecca had written decided to ask questions, or even to come down to investigate, then perhaps they too would see the truth.
It was a slim chance. They were just as likely to see the truth from their own standpoint as members of the ruling class. But if the information he gave them as Earl of Wyvern somehow tallied with what they would learn from the people themselves, then perhaps…
Certainly he had a better chance this way of attracting enough attention that something would be done. The people alone, even banded together with a Rebecca at their head, were virtually helpless. He alone, as the Earl of Wyvern, was merely an eccentric and annoying gentleman best ignored.
No. He rode toward the agreed meeting place, not in Glynderi, but two miles south of the river, stopping only once among some densely packed trees he had chosen in advance for the purpose to unroll his blanket and don the garb of Rebecca. No, he must not begin to wonder now or to worry about what he might have unleashed. He must go on. And he had to admit that it was exciting to go on. For four days he had lived for this moment.
He wondered if Marged would come tonight. Part of him hoped that she would remain safely at home. Part of him—perhaps a larger part, if he was strictly honest with himself—hoped that she would come.
He stopped when he reached the meeting place, holding both his horse and his person motionless despite the fact that moonlight bathed the bleak and open hillside and he would be in full view of anyone who happened past. But he knew that his followers expected courage and daring and dignity of their Rebecca. Well, then, he would give them what they wanted. Besides, he would be just as visible if he pranced about and ducked and weaved.
Finally they came, large groups from the east and the north, a smaller one from the west. But at least as many men as on Saturday night and perhaps more. It seemed that they had not been scared away by the warnings or the knowledge that there were constables in the area. He felt a wave of pride for his people. His daughters rode up beside him, all of them silent. Apart from Aled, he did not know the identities of any of the others, just as they did not know his. It was better so. Only the members of the committee knew who he was.
And Idris Parry, an inner voice reminded him.
Apart from one sweep of his head from right to left, he kept his head high and his eyes forward. It had been impossible to tell from that one glance if Marged was in the crowd. But he would bet a fortune that she was. It would be a matter of pride with Marged to go wherever the men went. And to strike every possible blow against the Earl of Wyvern.
He raised his arms slowly and waited for all the murmurings to die away. He knew from his education and experience not to yell over the noise, muted as it was, and so lessen the sense of power and authority he sought to project. He waited for total silence.
"My children," he said, using the voice skills that he knew carried the sound a great distance without the necessity of yelling. "Your mother welcomes you and thanks you for coming to give her your help. There are two gates that disturb me and that must come down this night. You will remove them, my children, when I give the signal."
There was a murmuring of assent.
"Lead the way, Mother," Charlotte said.
"We will follow," another daughter added.
He lowered his arms when the murmuring had died away again, and rode forward, Aled on his right, another of his daughters on his left.
It should have been easier tonight, he thought when they came down to the road and turned left toward the tollgate already visible in the distance. Tonight he knew that he could control his followers and that they could accomplish what had to be done quickly and efficiently. But his heart pounded like a jackhammer in his chest. And perhaps it was just as well, he thought. Perhaps the night he was relaxed and confident would be the very night when danger would strike and he would not be ready for it.
At the first gate there was a gatekeeper with a wife and an infant. The woman was hysterical, the child loudly crying, and the man terrified and sniveling. Geraint had to direct that four of his followers help remove the family's belongings and set them far enough away from the house that they would not be damaged. This was the worst part, he thought as he sat motionless facing the gate, his arms aching from being raised for so long. He did not enjoy creating terror in innocent people. He did not enjoy making them homeless in the middle of the night even though he knew that tomorrow they would be well compensated from the coffers of Rebecca.
But finally the personal belongings were safe and the family had disappeared and he was able to bring his arms sweeping down and to watch as his followers destroyed one of the symbols of their oppression.
Marged, he saw, was working on the gate as she had the last time, wielding blow for blow with the men on either side of her. She did not look up at him.
At the second gate there was only one elderly man as gatekeeper. He neither sniveled nor raged, and he had so few personal belongings to fetch from the house that Geraint felt a stabbing of pity for him. He went limping off into the darkness, his bundle over his shoulder, before Rebecca brought down her arms and his home was destroyed within a few minutes.
Geraint felt slightly less exhilaration tonight. And perhaps that was as well too. This was not a game he played. He was not a boy any longer. He was a man. And it was serious business he was involved in. Unfortunately, in serious business there were always people who suffered. He did not like causing suffer
ing. He did it only because it seemed necessary, but he would not allow any more than he must.
"My children." He raised his arms and waited for silence. He had thought that first night that he might not achieve it since the men's blood was up after such destruction. But he had found that the raised arms and the firm expectation of obedience to his will had brought it. It happened again.
"My children," he said, "you have done good work tonight. Rebecca is proud of you. Go home now but be careful. We have enemies. Your mother will call you out again soon and you will come to her assistance."
He held his horse still in the middle of the road as he had done the last time while the men dispersed and went their several ways. Marged went with the men from Glynderi. He watched her go. Their eyes had not once met tonight. He had made no attempt to ride close to her or to single her out for attention. He was not sure it would be wise to try to repeat what had happened on Saturday night. He did not want to tempt fate. And she might have had time to realize since Saturday that it was not wise to pursue any sort of flirtation with a stranger. He did not want to approach her and be rejected. Being rejected as both Geraint Penderyn and Rebecca might be just too much for him.
And yet he watched her go with regret and wondered if he should go after her.
A little farther along the road her group turned upward into the hills. She stopped for a moment to look back at him. The moment stretched and she half lifted a hand in a gesture of farewell.
He raised his own arm upward, palm in, and moved it slowly toward himself—a slight gesture of beckoning that she could interpret as she would.
She stood where she was a moment longer and then came walking back toward him. He did not know if she had said anything to the others, but they kept walking upward after a couple of them had stopped briefly to look down at her.
She stopped beside his horse and looked up at him.
It was too late to send her back. And he knew in his heart of hearts that he did not want to. But he felt the difference between tonight and Saturday. There was very definitely a difference.
He reached down a hand for hers and looked into her eyes, shadowed beneath the brim of her cap. "Come," he said.
She looked at his hand for a few moments before placing her own in it and her foot on his boot. She felt it too, then. She knew this was different. But like him, she knew it was too late to go back. And perhaps like him, she did not really want to.
She sat before him on the horse's back. Without turning her head to look at him, she took off the cap and stuffed it in a pocket of her jacket while she shook her hair free. She took a handkerchief from the same pocket and scrubbed at her face with it. Unwise moves, both. She was making herself beautiful for him.
Ah, Marged.
Then, still without looking at him or saying a word, she leaned sideways against him and burrowed her head into his shoulder.
He gave his horse the signal to move.
Perhaps she should not have stopped and looked back. He had made no move to seek her out or to speak with her tonight. Perhaps he had not wanted any further involvement with her. She was as bold as any man in many ways, but she had never taken the initiative in seeking out any man. Perhaps she had made a mistake.
But she knew she had not. She had known as soon as she turned that he was watching her. And she had known by his gesture, slight as it was, that he wanted her to come. And she had known as soon as she was at his horse's side and looking up into his eyes that he wanted her to ride with him again.
But she knew more than that. She knew that it was different tonight. She knew that tonight he had beckoned to her as a man and that she had come as a woman. She knew that a great deal more had happened on Saturday night than had been apparent and that a great deal more had happened during the intervening days than she had realized. She knew tonight that she had desired him on Saturday and every day and night since. And she knew quite consciously that she desired him tonight. She leaned her weight against him and nestled her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes and felt the heat of him and the strength of him. She smelled the clean smell of him.
She did try for a few moments to tell herself that she could not possibly desire a man she had never seen without the grotesque disguise, a man she did not know. She did not even know his name or his occupation or his marital status. She tried to tell herself that the daughter of the Reverend Meirion Llwyd could not possibly be indulging in and reveling in these feelings of pure physical desire for a man who was not her husband. She had never had feelings quite so intense even for Eurwyn.
But she did not fight for long. For the first time she understood the temptations that led women into sin. And sin did not even feel sinful tonight. Besides, they were just feelings. No one would be hurt by them. He would take her home and kiss her again and she would have the rest of the night in which to dream of these moments. Not as many as last time—they had worked much closer to home tonight.
She knew he was feeling as she felt. There were the physical layers of a disguise between them, but when her eyes were closed she knew that there were no barriers at all between their hearts. Or perhaps she was glamorizing the situation too much, thinking of hearts. But she knew that he desired her. She knew that she had not merely made a fool of herself by turning back to him.
She did not know where they were. She had kept her eyes closed. When his horse slowed and then stopped, she opened them and found that they were in darkness, among trees. Just south of the river, she guessed. Close to home. She wished they had five more miles to go. Or ten.
He lifted his shoulder, bringing her head closer to his. She closed her eyes again when she realized he was going to kiss her, and turned slightly so that she could lift an arm about his other shoulder.
There was something almost unbearably erotic, she thought, about feeling the warm, soft flesh of his mouth against her own but only the wool of his mask surrounding it. He kissed her with parted lips as he had done before. Eurwyn had never done that. Neither had Geraint—she closed off the thought. And he traced the seam of her own lips with the tip of his tongue, something that shocked her and sent raw pain—no, not really pain—shooting down through her body to set up a throbbing between her legs.
"Oh," she said when he was finished.
But he did not immediately ride on again as she expected or kiss her again as she hoped. He was looking at her, but it was too dark among the trees to see his eyes clearly. And the moon and stars had disappeared, she realized. Clouds must have moved over.
"Shall we get down, then?" he asked her, his voice low and husky against her ear.
She was not so naive that she did not understand him. Or so dazed by his kisses or her own desire that she did not understand all the implications. It was something that had horrified her as a girl of sixteen. It was something she had deplored in others. It was something she would not have thought herself capable of even considering.
"Or shall I take you home?"
Take me home. Oh, yes, take me home. "We will get down," she heard herself whispering.
He held her steady while he dismounted and then lifted her to the ground, as he had done the last time outside her home. He kept his hands on her waist, as he had done then, and kissed her briefly on the lips.
"You are sure, Marged?" he asked her.
Her legs felt boneless. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. "Yes." She was still whispering.
Chapter 17
He released her in order to tether his horse and lift a bundle from its back, and then he took her by the hand and led her farther in among the trees until it was so dark that she did not believe she could even see the end of her nose. She stretched out her free hand ahead of her.
"Here." He stopped walking and held her hand firmly while he appeared to be spreading on the ground the bundle he had drawn from his horse's back. "Lie down."
Looking back the way they had come, she could see the lighter grayness of the world outside the forest. Here it was blacker th
an night. She lay down. It was a blanket or a cloak that was beneath her.
When he came down beside her and cupped her face with one hand and found her mouth with his own, she drew in her breath sharply. His mask was gone. She raised her hand to his face. And so was the wig. He had short, thick hair. Wavy. He opened her mouth with his own, and his tongue came slowly and deeply inside. She heard herself moan.
She was wearing breeches, she thought suddenly. It was going to be awkward. But he did nothing about them for the moment. He was unbuttoning her jacket and then her shirt. And his hand was coming inside, over her shoulder, down the valley between her breasts, and then around to cup one of her breasts, to feather his fingers over it, to rub his palm over her nipple, to pinch it gently.
Oh. Eurwyn had never… "Oh."
His mouth was moving down over her chin, down her throat, trailing hot kisses to her breast, opening over its tip and closing again. His tongue rubbed the nipple.
"Ah." She arched up against him. Both her hands held his head, her fingers pushing into the thick curls.
And then his mouth was on hers again and she could feel his fingers dealing with the buttons on her breeches. She lifted her hips when she could feel that they were all open and reached down a hand, helping him to slide them off along with her undergarments. She felt the cool night air against her bare flesh. She felt as if she were on fire.
She did not help him with his own clothes. He still wore Rebecca's robe, and she guessed he wore some kind of breeches beneath. He did not completely remove them. She could feel the fabric against her legs as he came onto her and eased them wide. When he put himself against her, she discovered that she was swollen and throbbing and wet. But she could feel no embarrassment, only the aching urgency of the moment. His hands came beneath her to cushion her.
"Marged," he said against her ear.
She did not know his name to reply. It did not matter. "Cariad," she whispered to him. My love.
