by Mary Balogh
He came in slowly. But he came deep. She felt stretched wide by him, filled with him. She had never imagined…
She had always lain still. Willing and receptive, but still and impassive. She could not be either this time. When he withdrew and slid inward again, she pivoted her hips and tightened muscles she had not known she had in order to draw him far in, in order to feel him there. And then she relaxed while he withdrew again, and lifted and pulled inward when he returned. She had felt rhythm before, but someone else's, someone doing something to her, pleasurable, but not involving her. This time his rhythm became her own, so that soon she was gasping with him and slick with sweat with him and moving with him to that outpouring of energy and tension that she had always faintly envied in her husband.
"I can't…" She was frightened suddenly. Suddenly she wanted to turn back, to make different decisions, to give different answers. She did not want to move into this new world.
"You can." He spoke softly against her ear, though he was breathless from his exertions. "You can, Marged."
And he held deep in her when she expected him to withdraw and so broke her rhythm and the sudden defenses she had thrust up in her panic. She was impaled on him and had no choice but to give him what his body demanded. Her own body's surrender. Not the acquiescence she had always given in her marriage, but surrender. Of her body. Of her heart. Of her whole self.
But just at the moment when terror threatened to engulf her, wonder caught at her instead. For with the warm springing of his seed deep inside her she felt him surrender exactly the same things to her.
They had made love, she thought hazily and foolishly. They had not just coupled. They had made love. She had never before really understood the meaning of the term.
She had made love with a stranger.
With Rebecca.
Incredibly she was sleeping. It was a chilly night and the ground was hard, but she lay on her side, pressed in to his body, her head on his arm, her hand clutching Rebecca's robe just below his shoulder. He had pulled the edge of the blanket up over her. And she was sleeping.
He was moved by the trust in him she must have to sleep in his arms. And to give herself to him though she did not know who he was. It seemed to him so typical of Marged to behave with such reckless generosity.
He fought sleep himself. He was sated and utterly relaxed, but he dared not sleep. There was danger in the fact that he had all the trappings of Rebecca with him when two tollgates had been destroyed a mere few miles away. Though that was not the danger that most concerned him. If he fell deeply asleep, he might not wake until after dawn. And Marged would see with whom she had lain and loved.
He had not intended this to happen. He really had not. Even when he had beckoned her to come back to him, he had not planned this. He had not planned anything. Perhaps he had expected a repetition of Saturday night. Even when he had felt the difference, after she had come back to him, he had thought only of kisses. Even when he had stopped by the trees among which he had changed into his disguise earlier, he had not planned this.
Had he?
Why, then, had he stopped here? He could hear himself asking her the question—Shall we get down, then? And then, so that he would not pressure her into doing anything she did not want to do—as he had tried to do at the age of eighteen—Or shall I take you home?
And yet it was not really a free choice he had given her. He should have fought the temptation to take her in the guise of a stranger. And yet she had given herself freely to a stranger. He might be anybody. He might be a married man for all she knew.
Marged. He rubbed his cheek lightly over the top of her head. Her hair was warm and silky. She had given herself with passion, as he would have expected. There had been a suggestion of innocence too. She had been frightened at the end by the force of her own passion. Perhaps Eurwyn Evans had allowed it to lie dormant inside her. But he did not want to think about her marriage—or how it had ended.
She stirred and her head went back along his arm. She was looking up at him. He wondered if her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. His own had not. But it had been reckless to remove his mask and wig.
"Who are you?" she whispered. "Surely you can tell me now. Surely you must know that you can trust me, that I will never betray you."
He found her mouth with his own and kissed her. "I am Rebecca," he said.
"Give me a name at least," she begged him. "A first name. A name to think of you by."
He wondered what she would do if he simply gave her his name, all of it. For a moment he was tempted. He would hold her very tightly while she raged and fought. And then he would love her again. But it would not be that simple. She blamed him for her husband's death, and she was justified in doing so. And he had deceived her tonight just about as badly as a man could possibly deceive a woman.
"Rebecca," he said softly against her lips. "Think of me as Rebecca."
She sighed and smoothed her fingers through his hair and cupped one of his cheeks with her hand. "Rebecca," she said hesitantly, "are you married?"
"No," he said.
She sighed again. "Why not?" she asked him. "There must be lots of foolish women in your village to have allowed you to remain free. Why have you not married?"
"I have been waiting for you," he said, and realized even as he said it that there was a large measure of truth in his words.
"Ah." She moved her thumb across his lips. "But you will not even trust me with your name. Will you leave your mask off when we go back out into the night?"
"No," he said. "And we must go back out, Marged. We ought not to have stopped. It might be dangerous. The alarm might have been raised by now."
"Ah, must we go home?" she said. "I wish we could stay here forever. How foolish I am."
He rolled away from her in order to adjust his clothing and feel around in the darkness for his mask and his wig.
"And how selfish I am," she said. He could hear that she was pulling her breeches back on. "I am close to home. You still have a long way to ride. No, I am not fishing or trying to trap you. But I know you have a long way to go. If you lived close, I would know you. And I do not know you." She chuckled suddenly. "Except in the most biblical of senses. Why am I not ashamed? I am not, you know. Are you?"
"No," he said. He stooped to gather up the blanket and reached for her hand. He was not sure his answer was strictly true. "Come."
There was no sign of movement beyond the trees. The night was darker than it had been earlier. He was both glad and sorry for it. Glad because he could not easily be seen and sorry because he could not easily see. He mounted his horse and reached down a hand to bring Marged up in front of him. She snuggled immediately against him, wrapping both arms about his waist. He headed cautiously for the bridge across the river.
"You must be careful," she said. "Did you know that they are offering five hundred pounds for your capture?"
"Indeed?" he said. "I am worth that much?"
"No one will inform against you," she said. "Besides, no one knows who you are. The only real danger is that you will be caught. And I have added to that danger."
"No." He kissed the top of her head, feeling with regret the barrier of his mask that prevented him from touching her hair.
"He called on everyone on Monday," she said. "He even came to Ty-Gwyn."
"He?" The bridge had been safely crossed. He turned his horse upward into the hills.
"The Earl of Wyvern," she said. "He had the gall to help me with the stone picking on one of the fields. And then he questioned me and threatened me and hinted that I would be serving my people by informing against them."
"That was not nicely done," he said.
"I should have remained icily aloof," she said. "But I was furious. I slapped his face. But I was not sorry afterward. I am not sorry now."
"He was probably sorry," he said.
"He just looked at me with those cold eyes of his." she said. "He has changed so much. He used to be full
of—oh, how do I describe it? A passion for living."
"You used to like him?" he asked.
"I loved him," she said. "He was a wonderful child. He lived in such dreadful poverty and yet his spirit was quite unbowed. He was cheerful, energetic, daring—oh, a hundred different things. And he used to sing, with the sweetest soprano voice. Such heavenly music from a ragged and impish little rogue." She chuckled, though there was sadness in the sound. "I used to love him. I find it hard to believe that he is the same person. I would not wish to see you in his power. He is hard and ruthless. He does not show mercy. I do not like you riding in this area."
"I will be careful." They were riding up the last part of the slope between Ninian Williams's farm and Ty-Gwyn. He could not talk easily. There was an ache in his throat. She had spoken of Geraint Penderyn, the child, with such wistful tenderness in her voice.
He did not speak again until he had lifted her to the ground outside the gate to the farmyard. He kissed her warmly.
"Marged," he said, "you must be careful too. I would rather you did not come out again."
"Would you?" She lowered her eyes. "I should not have looked back tonight, should I? You did not mean to spend time with me tonight, did you? I am sorry. But I did not go for that reason. I went because I had to. I will go again for the same reason. I will not come near you again. I am not trying to put an obligation on you merely because I have lain with you."
"Marged." He drew her close against him. "I may have got you with child. Have you thought of that?"
"Strangely, no," she said. "I was married for five years and never conceived. I have always thought I was unable to."
"If you are with child," he said, "I will not leave you in disgrace. You must tell me. If all else fails, you can communicate with me through Aled Rhoslyn. But it would not be a good situation, Marged. It would not make you happy."
He was trying desperately to be sensible. He was trying to force her to be sensible.
She looked up at him suddenly, smiling brightly. "I thought men were supposed to take their pleasure and feel no responsibility for their consequences," she said. "You are tenderhearted, Rebecca. Go now. You must go. And be careful."
He lowered his head to kiss her again, but she had turned away and was opening the gate. She hurried through it and closed it behind her. She was still smiling at him.
"Good night, Marged," he said.
"Good night." Her smile was too bright. "Cariad," she added, and turned to flee across the yard toward the house.
"Good night, cariad." He formed the words with his lips, though he did not speak them aloud.
There were special constables in the area. They were staying, apparently, at Tegfan, four of them, housed in the servants' quarters. But they had been seen walking about the park, deep in conversation with the Earl of Wyvern. And Glenys Owen had reported to her brothers that they had dined with him.
They called at almost every house in Glynderi and at almost every farm, asking questions, demanding that each man account for his whereabouts on the night when two tollgates and houses had been pulled down by Rebecca and her children. They offered immunity to anyone who would confess to having been there but who would give them the names of Rebecca and perhaps some of her daughters. No one could give them any assistance at all, of course. Every man had been in his bed, where he belonged at night, and every man's wife would vouch for the fact.
Marged heard all about it from Ceris, who called at Ty-Gwyn two days after the attack. The constables had not been there themselves, having ascertained, no doubt, that there were no men living there. Ceris was pale and shaking and huddled inside a shawl, even though the weather had turned warm. Marged took her into the empty cow barn and they leaned against the partition between two stalls.
"It must stop now," Ceris said. "Surely it will, Marged. Someone is going to get caught."
"I don't believe it will stop," Marged said. "This is what we wanted, Ceris—to attract attention. There would be no point in doing what we have done if no one took any notice of us. We want the government to take notice. We want them to ask questions, to find out why it is happening. We want the gates down permanently, and we want the government to know that the gates are only one grievance out of many."
Ceris put her hands over her face, and Marged heard her take a deep and ragged breath.
"At least it is not the Earl of Wyvern himself going around this time," Marged said. "He must have been discouraged by the reception he had on Monday."
But she could not whip up the appropriate anger against Geraint. And she could not get as excited as she ought about Ceris's news. She was too selfishly wrapped up in her own emotions. It was selfish, she knew. The greater cause was all that mattered, and yet all she had been able to think about since Wednesday night was the fact that he did not really want her.
Her heart had felt so leaden for almost two days that she felt that she was dragging it about on the soles of her feet with every step she took.
If she was with child, he would not leave her in disgrace. She might communicate with him through Aled. She supposed he meant that he would marry her if she was pregnant. Only because she was pregnant. Not for any other reason.
It would not be a good situation, Marged. It would not make you happy.
His words had repeated themselves so many times inside her head, that she felt dizzy with them. And yet she had told him—and she had meant it—that she did not lay any claim to him merely because she had lain with him.
She had lain with him! With a stranger. She could hardly believe that she had done such a thing and that she had felt so little shame—and still felt almost none. It had felt so right. As if they belonged together. She had never had a stronger sense of belonging even with Eurwyn. And yet it was ridiculous. She did not even know his name. She did not know what he looked like, where he lived, what he did for a living. She knew nothing about him except what she had learned about Rebecca. She could think about him only as Rebecca. But he was not Rebecca. She did not know who he was.
And yet she loved him. It was a foolish idea. It was the natural defense the mind made against sin, she supposed. It seemed less sinful, what she had done, if she could persuade herself that she loved the man with whom she had sinned.
She loved him.
It would not be a good situation. Marged.
He did not love her.
And yet he was an honorable man. He had given her a choice before lifting her down from his horse. And he had agreed to take responsibility for any consequences of their folly.
"Marged." Ceris laid a hand on her arm. "You look tired, girl. Will you at least stop going now? You have made a point. You have proved to everyone that you are as brave as any man and that you are willing to stand up for what you believe in. But you have Eurwyn's mam and gran to look after. Don't go again."
"Everyone has someone to look after, Ceris," Marged said. She was tempted not to go out again. It might be better to hold her memories intact, not to have to go through the pain of finding herself ignored. But as she had told him, she had other reasons for following Rebecca. More important reasons. "I will go."
They had reached an impasse. But before either of them could say more, there was an interruption in the form of a knock on the outer door. Since it was open, Marged could lean her head out into the passageway and see that it was Aled.
"Come in, Aled," she called to him. "We are in the barn here, Ceris and I." She would have avoided the meeting for both their sakes if she could, but it was impossible.
"Hello, Marged," Aled said, striding into the barn, his wary look at variance with his firm stride. He nodded in Ceris's direction. "Ceris."
Ceris had scurried a little farther into the barn. "Hello, Aled," she said, not quite looking at him.
"I had something I wanted to talk over with you, Marged," he said.
Ceris moved, drawing her shawl more tightly around herself as she did. "I'll be leaving, Marged," she said. "Mam will be needing help
with the wash."
But Marged held up a staying hand. She remembered with shame the way she had suggested just a few days ago that Ceris might perhaps, however inadvertently, say something she ought not to Mr. Harley.
"Don't leave, Ceris," she said. She looked at Aled. "You can speak in front of Ceris. She is my friend."
Ceris stood where she was, and Aled, after a moment's hesitation, nodded.
"Have you heard of the coffers of Rebecca?" he asked Marged.
She frowned and shook her head. "No," she said, but her stomach lurched just at the sound of his name.
"There is a fund," he said, "to help those in need. Some goes to the gatekeepers who lose their homes and their livelihood. Some goes elsewhere."
Oh, what a wonderful idea. She wondered whose it had been and who financed it.
Aled cleared his throat. "Rebecca has directed me to call on you," he said. "You need a laborer on the farm, especially with the seeding coming up."
She stared at him.
"And Waldo Parry needs a job," he said. "His wife has another little one on the way. I suppose you know."
She nodded, not saying anything and not taking her eyes off his face.
"I am to ask you to accept this money to pay him for working for you," he said, patting a pocket and looking downright embarrassed. "We all know how proud you are, Marged. We all know that you are capable of running this farm as well as any man. But you could use the help. And Waldo will end up in the workhouse if he finds no job this spring. I do not know who else can afford to offer him employment. You know what happens in the workhouse. He will be separated from his wife and she will be separated from her children. And they will all come close to starvation. Do it, girl. For them, is it?"
Marged was very much afraid that she was about to disgrace herself. If she moved or tried to open her mouth, she would end up bawling. He cared! He did care. She did not for one moment believe that his primary concern was for Waldo Parry. He could have persuaded anyone to take Waldo on. But he had chosen her. Because she needed help. Because he cared.
