by Mary Balogh
They smiled warmly at each other before they moved into each other's arms—Aled winced only slightly and she carefully avoided touching his wounded shoulder. They stood, silently embracing, for a few minutes before their attention was caught by loud and persistent coughing from the direction of the house.
Ninian Williams and his wife were standing side by side outside the door. Both looked pleased even though Ninian was trying to maintain his ferocious frown and Mrs. Williams had her apron up over her face again.
They were tramping up over the hills and down through valleys again. They had walked for what must be several miles already. There had been an unusually dry spell of weather. The grass felt dry and almost dusty underfoot.
They were going to a meeting tonight, Aled had said, and then perhaps on to a gate smashing. It was becoming more nerve-racking to leave home and make one's way to the meeting place. The constables were still at Tegfan. One never knew quite where they were or quite whom they were watching. They had followed Ceris the last time even though Ceris had never marched with Rebecca. If they had followed Ceris all the way from her father's house, perhaps they had seen two other people going down the hill too, Marged thought—Waldo Parry and herself.
She had been sorely tempted tonight to stay at home. But not just from fear, it had to be admitted. She was not sure she was ready to see Rebecca again. Part of her longed for him, for his closeness, for his lovemaking. But not just the physical lovemaking, though it was more deliriously wonderful with him than she had ever imagined it could be. There was the feeling of emotional closeness too, the feeling that they belonged together, that they were ll,^ of friends even though she did not know his name and had never seen his face. She felt almost married to Rebecca. Almost but not quite.
She was still feeling dreadfully upset over her encounter with Geraint at Tegfan. And ashamed of what she had offered in exchange for Ceris's freedom. Though she would have done it too, she knew, and would still do it if it were the only way to ensure Ceris's continued freedom. How could she even have dreamed of offering such a thing when she was Rebecca's? Would she be able to go back to Rebecca tonight if she really had given herself to Geraint? It was perhaps a foolish question she posed herself since in fact she had not been called upon to make any such sacrifice. But was not the intention as bad as the deed? She would have slept with him if he had asked it of her.
Marged stumbled against a stone on a hillside and muttered to herself while Dylan Owen steadied her and grinned at her. "One thing about it, Marged," he said. "If you have sprained an ankle, you have only the one way to walk, unlike the rest of us. You will be riding home in style."
They all knew, she thought, that she was Rebecca's woman. Perhaps they even suspected that Rebecca was her lover. No one had said anything openly to her. They were a good sort, her neighbors and friends. But heaven help her if her father ever got wind of the fact.
"If I ride home tonight," she said with an answering grin, "I will spare your corns a thought, Dylan. One single, brief thought."
If she rode home tonight. She half hoped that tonight he would not single her out but would leave her to return home with her friends. She did not know quite how she was to face him. She loved him both tenderly and passionately, but she felt horribly as if she had been unfaithful to him. For not only had she been prepared to lie with Geraint, but also she had wanted to.
There. The thought was full-blown and verbal in her mind. The thought she had been tiptoeing guiltily about for two whole days. When she had touched Geraint and offered herself to him, there had been a stabbing of sexual desire for him in her womb and between her thighs. She had wanted him there, easing her pain and bringing her pleasure. She had wanted to do with him what she had done with Eurwyn and what she did with Rebecca.
There. She had called a spade a spade in her mind and she felt even more wretched than she had before. Not only with guilt but with confusion. How could she love one man and yet want to—to rut with another? Did sleeping with a man outside marriage make one suddenly and indiscriminately promiscuous? She knew what answer her father would give to that question. And it seemed he would be right.
But her thoughts were interrupted. They were meeting up with another group in the hollow between two hills, and in the middle of the group, on a slight rise of land, stood Rebecca. He was not on horseback, but he looked as tall and as commanding and as majestic as he always looked.
In one way her first sight of him tonight was reassuring. She felt a rush of love for him that was only partly physical. Looking at him, she was convinced that she loved only him. How could she have doubted even for a moment that her devotion was all his?
There was a stranger standing quite close to him. Most of the men here were strangers to her, of course. But this man was without disguise and he was dressed in clothes that looked both fashionable and expensive. He was looking about him with frank interest.
Aled dismounted and joined the other daughters on the mound with Rebecca. The stranger was there too and another man, disguised like everyone else but not as a daughter. His role became clear when the meeting began. He was an interpreter, translating what Rebecca said into English, though interestingly enough he did not translate what was said in English back into Welsh for Rebecca's comprehension.
Marged did not know why Rebecca chose not to speak in English. Almost everyone she knew spoke the language to a certain extent, and Rebecca was an intelligent man and seemed to be an educated one. And obviously he understood perfectly well what was said to him. But for some reason he chose to speak through an interpreter.
The stranger was an Englishman from London. He wrote for a London newspaper and was gathering information about the Rebecca Riots and the grievances that had led to them. He had spoken with all the landowners in the area and now wished to hear from Rebecca herself and from the people who followed her. If they could convince him that they had good reason to riot and if he could draw the attention of the English to their plight, perhaps he could do them some good. Already the government was talking about sending commissioners to West Wales to do much what he was doing but in a more official way.
It was an exciting idea, that they had already achieved their objective of attracting attention to their cause and that this man had come, willing to listen to their side of the story as well as that of the landowners. Perhaps after all the skeptics would be proved wrong. Perhaps after all good would come out of the necessary evil they had instituted. Perhaps after all Rebecca would become a national hero. It seemed that it was a letter from Rebecca that had brought the reporter from The Times to Wales.
Was he capable of writing a letter that could have that powerful an effect, then? Marged fixed her eyes on him. She was becoming so accustomed to the long gown, the wig, and the mask that they were beginning to seem almost normal to her. But for a moment again she felt an intense curiosity about the man behind the mask. What did he look like? What sort of life did he lead? It seemed somehow bizarre that she had no answers to those questions and yet knew him with greater physical intimacy than she had known with Eurwyn even in five years of marriage.
The meeting lasted a whole hour and might have lasted several more if Rebecca had not brought it to an end when the complaints voiced to Mr. Foster of The Times began to become repetitive. Many of them had spoken. She had spoken up herself and had told briefly of the injustice Eurwyn had tried to put right and the fate that had befallen him as a result.
Mr. Foster had talked to all the landowners, she remembered. He would have spoken with Geraint. Would Geraint have mentioned the salmon weir to him and the fact that he had had it destroyed soon after his arrival at Tegfan? Would he have convinced Mr. Foster that he was not guilty of the oppression that had existed on his estate for years? She felt angry that his lies might have been believed.
And yet he had destroyed the weir. And he had had all the mantraps removed. Why? She did not want to be reminded of that old question. He certainly had not instituted any refo
rms since then.
Except that he had prevented Sir Hector Webb from striking Ceris and had opposed taking Ceris away for questioning after Mr. Harley had given her an alibi. And except that he had pretended to believe that the confession she, Marged, had made to him was a lie and had let her go free.
Why had he let her go? She had thought at the time that perhaps he had allowed her that favor so that he could pursue her and make it very difficult for her to order him out of her sight. But she had not set eyes on him for two days.
She hated the fact that Geraint Penderyn, Earl of Wyvern, somehow defied all labels. She wanted so much to be able to dismiss him as an unadulterated villain.
Rebecca was talking to them and Marged's full attention was drawn to him again. He had his arms raised, the sure sign that he was leading them on a new mission. And sure enough, they were to destroy the gate and makeshift house that had been reerected near Penfro—their first mission. Mr. Foster was to accompany them.
Part of her attention was on Mr. Foster throughout the destruction of the gate. Destruction was such a negative thing. She wondered if he was quite repelled or if he was at all impressed by the discipline of their actions, by the courtesy shown the new gatekeeper, though he swore the air blue. As usual, he was given time to remove his personal belongings from the house and to get himself safely away. As usual, they had all been instructed to offer the man no violence, either of word or deed. No one replied to his tirade with even a mild oath. She wondered if Mr. Foster was impressed by the total control Rebecca exercised over his followers without ever having to raise his voice.
Surely Mr. Foster could not fail to be impressed and to realize that they were not a mob with simple destruction on their minds. Surely he could and would help them.
She was tired of the Rebecca Riots, she realized suddenly. She was tired of the destruction and the danger. She was tired of worrying about Rebecca. She wanted peace. But if and when the riots came to an end, would she lose Rebecca? Would she ever see him again? Or if she did, would she know him? She would always know him, she told herself. If ever she passed him on a street or occupied the same building with him, she would know him.
But she might well lose him once these nocturnal adventures were at an end.
But not quite yet. Rebecca dismissed her children and they all went their separate ways, Mr. Foster among them.
And then Rebecca was at her side, leaning down from his horse, hand extended, as usual. She smiled up at him and set her hand in his and her foot on his boot.
She would not think of the end, she thought, snuggling against him and closing her eyes as they rode off in the direction of her home. Not yet.
Chapter 25
Geraint was feeling rather euphoric. Despite the various dangers, everything appeared to be working as he had hoped it would. He believed that as the Earl of Wyvern he had enlightened Foster and aroused his sympathies for the rebels. And he believed that as Rebecca he—and all his followers—had stated their case fully and clearly and rationally. Foster had seen tonight that they were not a violent, hysterical mob bent on mindless violence. He had seen, perhaps, that they were people at war against an unjust and oppressive system.
He trusted Foster to see clearly through to the heart of the matter and to write eloquently enough to arouse the interest and sympathy of a London reading public. If it all happened quickly enough, and if a commission of inquiry really was sent to West Wales and consisted of intelligent and open-minded commissioners, then surely all this would soon be over. The necessity for rebelling in order to draw attention would be past.
He would no longer be Rebecca. She would disappear into thin air and only a very few people would ever know who Rebecca had been. Marged would never know. Unconsciously his arm tightened about her as they rode and she muttered something unintelligible and burrowed deeper into his shoulder. She was actually dozing, he thought with a smile. What an amazing woman she was. And how he loved her. Would he lose her forever when Rebecca disappeared? Was there any way on this earth that Geraint Penderyn could win her love? He did not believe so.
He had taken a route that would bring them onto the upland moors above Tegfan and Ty-Gwyn again. He guided his horse toward the ruined hovel that had been home. Yes—home. He had experienced all of a mother's love here, and more lately he had known the love of a woman here. It was ironic that such a bleak and sorry little hut should have housed so much love. He thought of the magnificence—and the coldness and loneliness—of Tegfan.
Marged stirred as soon as his horse stopped. He dismounted and lifted her down, tethered his horse beside the house, where it would be very difficult for anyone else to see, and lifted down the blanket. Marged was standing waiting for him. He backed her against the wall of the house and kissed her. She was warm and relaxed from sleep. It was amazing, he thought, how quickly one could become dependent upon the love of another person. Not just physical love, though he was aroused and ready for her, but emotional love too. He had become dependent upon her affection and respect and friendship. It was rather frightening when he remembered that those gifts were being given to a man who did not exist. And yet he needed the gifts as he needed air to breathe and water to drink.
"Let us go inside," he whispered against her lips, "and make ourselves comfortable."
The warmth and relaxation disappeared. She pushed away from him and turned her back on him, gazing out into the night beyond the corner of the hut.
"There is something I must tell you," she said.
His stomach lurched. She was with child. Oh, God, she was with child. There was an uncomfortable churning of excitement and despair inside him.
"I love you," she said. "I did not believe it was possible to love as I love you. And yet—and yet I am not sure I have been faithful to you."
He stood very still and waited for her to continue.
"When Ceris Williams was arrested two days ago," she said, "I thought they were going to drag her away to jail and perhaps torture her for information. You heard that she had been arrested, did you? I thought she would be transported even though she was innocent of everything except caring about the safety of the rest of us. So I went to Tegfan and told the Earl of Wyvern that I was the one who had been seen on the road by the smashed gate, not Ceris. I told him I was one of your followers." She paused. "I even told him we were lovers."
Marged! So incurably honest. He knew now what she was going to say to him, though he wondered exactly how she would describe it.
"That was incredibly brave of you, cariad," he said.
"Incredibly foolish," she said with a bleak little laugh. "I still do not know quite why he chose to believe that I was lying."
"Who would confess freely to such a thing if it were the truth?" he said. "Why do you think you might have been unfaithful to me?"
He could hear the raggedness of the deep breath she took. "When I still thought Ceris was in custody," she said, "before I learned that she had been set free, I told Ger—the earl that I would do anything to persuade him to release her. No, don't say anything yet," she said hastily as he drew breath to speak. "You understand what I am saying, don't you? I touched him and put myself against him. I was offering my body."
"But he did not accept the offer?" he asked her.
"No," she said.
"Then no harm was done." He set a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.
"But I would have done it," she said. "1 would have given myself to him as many times as he chose to take me. I made the offer. It was he who rejected it, not me."
"'You did it to save a friend," he said, touching her shoulder again. This time she let his hand rest there. "We all know the Bible quotation "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.' Or something like that—I am not sure I have it word perfect. You were prepared to give something of perhaps even greater value than your life, Marged. I can only honor you for it."
Was is such a sacrifice to give herself to Geraint
Penderyn that she had suffered this anguish? He could feel the anguish—and the guilt—being passed on to him.
He turned her then and even in the darkness he could see her eyes huge with tears. He drew her against him and kissed her. "Let's go inside." he said.
But she was still not relaxed. She drew back her head and gazed at him. "That is not all," she said. "I have to tell you the rest."
"What, cariad?" he asked her.
"I wanted to," she blurted, and she stiffened against his hands. "I don't understand it, but I have to tell you the truth. I love you. I love you with all my heart, though even that seems absurd when I know so little about you. And I hate him with all my heart. And yet I wanted him. It horrifies me, yet it is true. So I was unfaithful, you see, for I was not only willing but even eager. I will walk down to Ty-Gvvyn now and you can ride safely home. I will—perhaps I will not come out the next time we are called. In fact I definitely will not. Forgive me. I did not mean to—"
"Marged." He pulled her hard against him. He did not believe it was possible to feel so elated and so wretched all at the same time. She had wanted him. And with Marged desire would never be just a physical thing. If she did not hate him so much, and with such good reason, she would love him again. And surely something in her subconscious mind was putting the two of them together—Geraint and Rebecca—and understanding the connection.
And yet there was wretchedness. She had been startlingly honest with him, and yet in his dealings with her as Rebecca he had been nothing but deceitful and dishonest. What he should do, he thought, was tell her the truth right now. He owed her the truth. And no matter what her reaction, he knew her well enough to know that she would not betray him.
"Marged," he said, "there are things in all our lives that we are ashamed of. There are many in my life."
"Don't tell me," she said quickly, looking up into his face again. "Don't say any more. If you feel you must make confessions of your own just to make me feel better, don't. I feel bruised and battered. All I have to believe in at the moment is you and my love for you. Don't say any more tonight. Can you forgive me? If not, let me go home with no more said. If you can, then let us make love. I need you—if you will still have me."
