Stormswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Then he’d make sure Pennant was no longer around to tempt Lettice.

  The scent of roast duckling, mingled with the sugary smell of cinnamon apples, wafted up to Juliana where she lay on her bed. Her mouth watering, she thrust her head under her pillow.

  Mama had prevailed upon Papa not to cane her, so he’d chosen confining her to her room for the next two weeks and sending her to bed without supper tonight, when her favorite meal was being served.

  She would rather have been caned, just to have it done and over with.

  Then again, perhaps not. Papa had been furious. He might truly have hurt her, especially after she’d refused to tell him what meeting she’d attended and who’d taken her there. She’d never seen him so enraged.

  Had last night’s adventure been worth it?

  Aye. One kiss from Rhys Vaughan had been worth all of it.

  Like as not, she’d never see the smooth-tongued Welshman again. She wished she could get a note to him, to explain . . .

  She punched the pillow. What was there to explain? That she wished she were a Welsh girl who could kiss whomever she wanted? It was true. At the moment, she’d rather be a scullery maid than a lady.

  The door swung open, making her jerk her head around. Her mother slipped into the room and came to sit on the bed beside her. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. You do understand why your father punished you, don’t you?”

  Juliana swallowed her resentful words.

  “He merely wants what’s best for you, dear. If you’re to make a good marriage, you must learn to control these wild urges of yours. You cannot simply go off on your own. There are men who would—” Her mother broke off, lips tightening.

  “Would what?”

  Mama dropped her voice as if speaking of a deadly secret. “Assault your person.”

  Juliana’s eyes widened. Lettice hadn’t told her that. “You mean they would hit me?” Juliana didn’t count Papa’s canings as hitting; that was merely punishment for transgressions.

  “Not exactly.” Mama looked pained. “Men can assault a woman in other ways. They can touch a woman . . .” Her mother trailed off, obviously embarrassed.

  “You mean, like kissing them?” Juliana added helpfully.

  Her mother glanced up, startled. “What do you know of kissing?”

  Juliana dropped her gaze. “I-I’ve watched Lettice.”

  Her mother’s sigh of relief sounded loud in the room. “That maid of yours is entirely too forward with men for an unmarried woman. But then, she’s Welsh.”

  What did that have to do with it? “Do only Welshwomen let men kiss them like that?”

  “An unmarried Englishwoman would never allow a man to kiss her, unless he were her betrothed, of course. Even then, it would be a buss on the cheek, no more. Only married people may kiss on the mouth . . . and . . . well, touch each other.”

  Mama’s voice grew brittle. “But men have trouble curbing their intense . . . ah . . . feelings. So women must be the strong ones and hold them at bay.”

  Mr. Vaughan’s kiss had made her feel all tingly and pleasant inside. She’d wanted to stand there kissing him forever. “Don’t women have intense feelings?”

  “Certainly not! Not proper Englishwomen and well-bred ladies. The Welsh are different, because they have impure blood. But English ladies are a higher breed—strong feelings aren’t in our constitution. There are a few unmarried women willing to be any man’s paramour, but certainly no one who travels in our circles.”

  Juliana knew the word “paramour” had something to do with living in the same house with a man who wasn’t related to you either by blood or by marriage. But the word sounded so foreign that she’d dismissed it as a Continental peculiarity. “These few unmarried women . . . they’re English?”

  Her mother sat up straight on the bed. “In name only, I should think. Their behavior demonstrates that they’re not—” She broke off. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. In any case, you mustn’t think about women with such impure blood. You aren’t of that kind, not with your breeding.”

  “So you’re saying that if a woman, even an Englishwoman, lets a man kiss her and likes it, she has impure blood.”

  “Of course.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re awfully curious about this, Juliana.”

  She managed a smile. “Well, my window is over the garden, so I see the servant girls with their sweethearts go by. I never could understand why they kiss so much.”

  Her mother gave a tight-lipped smile. “And now you do.”

  Impure blood? That explained everything—why she felt so different from her family, why they always told her to control her emotions when she only wanted to let them out. That must be why she loved Welsh things and had “strong feelings” when Mr. Vaughan kissed her.

  “I’d best return downstairs, before I am missed and your father loses his temper.”

  Juliana scowled. Mama’s meek acceptance of Papa’s commands had always angered her. Perhaps that was her impure blood, too, making her want to fight instead of bow her head and take her medicine as Mama said a lady should.

  After Mama slipped out the door, Juliana got up and wandered to the window. Feeling hemmed in, she opened it and rested her arms on the sill.

  Now when her family talked about the Welsh as if they were odd creatures, she would know why she didn’t agree. Why she found Welsh stories about heroic conquests much more exciting than the English lady’s manuals Mama made her read. She had impure blood.

  She didn’t mind hearing that she was flawed. Ladies with impure blood seemed to have all the fun.

  Suddenly, she heard a rustling in the oak that grew near her window. A form appeared on the branch a couple of feet above, and she opened her mouth to scream. Then the figure said, “It’s me, Rhys.”

  “Mr. Vaughan? Good Lord! What are you doing?”

  Now she could see his face. “Coming in to talk to you.”

  Then before she could react, he dropped to hang from the branch. “Move away from the window, my lady.”

  It was either do as he said or watch him fall. With her heart in her throat, she got out of the way as he began swinging back and forth until he veered close enough to hook his feet over the sill.

  “You fool! ” she hissed and hurried forward to help him climb inside. “If you’d fallen, you might have been killed! ”

  He dusted off his breeches, then turned a gleaming gaze on her. “Are you so worried for me, then?” Grinning, he strode across the room to latch her door.

  Dear heaven, she’d welcomed a man into her bedchamber and let him lock them in together. This wouldn’t do at all. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know. I told myself I should stay clear of you and your family. But I had to find out if you survived your caning.” Taking off his coat, he tossed it across a chair. “When I glanced through the windows downstairs and didn’t see you with your family in the drawing room, I started circling the house, searching for a way in. That’s when I spotted you, looking like an angel in white.”

  The compliment softened her. A little. “Well, you must go. Someone might find you here, and I’ll be in even more trouble than I already am.”

  He winced. “Was the caning too very awful?”

  She shook her head. “As I’d hoped, Papa changed his mind about it after Mama talked to him. But I’m not allowed to leave my room for two weeks.” Her stomach growled. “And I was sent up without dinner.”

  His eyes darkened. “I’m sorry for getting you into trouble.”

  She shrugged. “It’s done now. No use crying over it.”

  “But at least I can help enliven your confinement.”

  “Oh, no, you can’t stay,” she cried as he drew a parcel from his coat pocket. “Mama might—”

  “I brought you a gift. As a sort of apology.”

  That stunned her into silence.

  He thrust the parcel at her. “I should have brought you bread, I suppose, but no gift can real
ly make up for the trouble I got you in.”

  “No . . . I mean . . .” She took it from him with a tremulous smile. “I can’t believe you brought me a present.”

  When she unknotted the string around the parcel, the burlap wrapping fell away to reveal a book. She caught her breath at the title—Gorchestion Beirdd Cymru. Which meant, in English, The Masterpieces of the Welsh Poets.

  “There’s no Huw Morus,” Mr. Vaughan said, “but it has poems by Taliesin and Dafydd ap Gwilym—”

  “It’s delightful! ” She lifted her gaze to him. “ ’Tis the most wonderful present anyone has ever given me.”

  He let out his breath. “You like it.”

  “How could I not?” She caressed the leather-bound volume. “I have lots of Welsh history books, but only pieces of Welsh poetry transcribed for me by our servants from their own small collections. I’ve never had a whole book of poems to myself.”

  He smiled. “That’s because there are few in existence. The Morrises in London did that one.”

  Opening the book, she thumbed through the pages, careful not to crease the spine. “How did you get a copy in such a short time?”

  “ ’Tis my own.”

  Her pulse quickened. She flipped to the front and saw his name written in ink on the flyleaf.

  “I have a small library of Welsh books I carry about with me,” he added. “That’s one of them.”

  She held the book out regretfully. “You mustn’t give me your only copy—”

  “I want to. I knew you would appreciate it.” He covered her hands with his.

  Her breath grew unsteady. “How can I ever thank you, Mr. Vaughan?”

  He smiled. “You could start by calling me Rhys.”

  When his eyes locked with hers, dark and searching, she said, “I’ll cherish your gift always, Rhys.”

  He stared at her as if caught up in a magic spell. And it must have been a spell that kept her from drawing her hands from his or looking away. Then he took the book from her to lay it on a nearby table and drew her close. She could hear the quickening of his breath, see the pulse beat in his throat.

  “You honor me by cherishing my gift,” he whispered.

  She didn’t speak a word, afraid to shatter the spell. He was going to kiss her. And she wanted him to. So, so much.

  His kiss began as the merest mingling of breaths, their lips just touching, but as she slipped her arms about his waist, he groaned and covered her mouth with his.

  Hunger had already made her light-headed, and the softness of his mouth and his musky scent engulfed her in a dizzy, unfamiliar pleasure.

  “Juliana,” he whispered against her mouth. “Sweet, sweet Juliana.”

  Her eyes slid shut. “Rhys.”

  He altered the tenor of their kiss, pressing harder and skimming his tongue along the seam of her lips. “Open to me, cariad.”

  Dear heaven, he’d called her his “love.”

  She opened her mouth to answer and felt his tongue plunge inside. Shock held her motionless until he began to explore her mouth, sparking a wanton heat inside her. Over and over, he thrust his tongue between her lips. The bold strokes made her yearn to feel him pressed more closely to her, but when she tightened her arms about his waist, he moaned.

  She jerked back. Had she hurt him? But he stared at her wild-eyed before dragging her back for a kiss so intense, it scarcely let her breathe. Then he scattered kisses over her cheeks, her jaw, her neck.

  Each touch of his lips bedeviled her with fierce urges until need spread through her body like hot honey. Freeing his hair of its ribbon tie, she raked her fingers through his unruly curls.

  Suddenly she heard footsteps in the hall. She twisted away, and he swore under his breath. The light footsteps paused outside her door, then continued past.

  After they heard a door open and close, he asked, “Who was it?”

  “Mama, probably going to her room.” She stared up at him. “Lettice will come soon to help me undress for bed. You mustn’t be here when she does.”

  A faint smile quirked up his lips. “I wouldn’t mind watching.”

  She reddened. “You shouldn’t talk that way.”

  “You’re right. Why waste time talking?”

  He reached for her once more, but she slipped from his grasp. “I’m serious, Rhys. You must leave. If you’re not concerned about Lettice finding you here, then think of this: Papa will soon follow Mama to bed, and if he discovers you here—”

  “He might make good on that caning.”

  “He’s really not as bad as he seems.”

  With a hard glare, he snatched up his coat. “Don’t speak to me of your father’s good points. I’m well aware of the man he truly is—the sort who would steal a man’s estate from his family.” The firelight flickered over the unyielding lines of his face. “But I suppose you don’t believe that he did.”

  “I don’t know whether Papa came by your estate fairly, but I do know he shouldn’t have taken it. I only wish I could do something.”

  His expression softened. “I don’t expect you to. As you said, you’re not to blame for it.”

  His generous dismissal of her guilt only increased it. If Papa hadn’t wanted a fine dowry for her, Rhys might even now be sitting comfortably in his own drawing room. What would he say if she told him that Llynwydd was hers? He’d probably accuse her of lying again, and she couldn’t bear that. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could change the fact.

  “I’d better go.” He donned his coat. “I’ve done what I came to do.” His gaze flicked to her lips. “And more than I should have.”

  “Won’t you come again?” Oh no, she shouldn’t have blurted that out.

  He sucked in a ragged breath. “You mean, here? To your room?”

  “Only if you want to.”

  “I want to.” He tipped up her chin to flash her a look of blazing desire. “I’ll return as often as you wish—every night, if it pleases you.”

  “Just make sure to come after everyone is asleep and Lettice has left, so we won’t be found out.”

  With eyes glittering, he traced a line along her jaw. “I don’t think you realize what you’re suggesting.”

  She turned her face to kiss his palm. “Perhaps not. But I don’t care.”

  He swallowed hard. “By thunder, I must be insane to let you put me through this uffern dân.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to suffer the ‘fires of hell’ for me, but I believe I like your form of insanity.”

  With a choked cry, he dragged her to him for another long, plundering kiss, and his hands roamed her body, taking new liberties. Then he released her to head for the window, where he climbed up onto the sill. “Are you sure about this?”

  She ought to take back her words. But wouldn’t it be lovely to see him again, to have more time to talk of poetry and the Sons of Wales and . . . oh, just everything? He’d explain to her what it meant to have impure blood. And he wouldn’t laugh at her enthusiasm for Welsh things, either.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then I’ll be here tomorrow.” Without warning, he jumped for the branch.

  Her heart leapt into her throat, but he caught the branch easily, then shimmied down the trunk.

  Once on the ground, he gazed up at her. “Tomorrow,” he mouthed.

  She nodded, lingering at the window until he was gone. Pray heaven that tomorrow came soon.

  4

  Much love will you see,

  And my heart and its key,

  My dear, if you say you will come with me;

  But if you draw back

  ’Tis a perilous lack—

  My life is so wounded, there’s no return track.

  —HUW MORUS, “PRAISE OF A GIRL”

  A week later, Rhys passed through the gardens of Northcliffe on silent feet. Every night began the same, with him determined to keep his hands off Juliana as they talked of Huw Morus and Dafydd ap Gwilym, of the Gwyneddigion Society and the war in the colonies. She had
an uncommon thirst for knowledge. It was as if the sheer outrageousness of his presence in her bedchamber freed her to ask any question that popped into her head.

  If they’d only talked, it would have been fine. But they’d done more. Every night ended the same, with her in his arms as he kissed and caressed her. Two nights ago, he’d finally unbuttoned her nightdress, which had been tormenting him as much by what it concealed as what it revealed. Then he’d slid his hand inside to cup the soft, heavy warmth of her breast.

  Just remembering it made him harden. After her initial shock, she’d allowed him to stroke and then pluck at her nipples, teasing them to firm little points. She’d even let him suck them with all the greed that had built in him since the first time he’d seen her. Her skin was smooth and firm, like ripe fruit luscious to taste. He’d wanted to go on tasting her forever.

  Then last night . . . damn it all, he’d pressed his advantage too far. They’d been arguing about some Goronwy Owen poem when he’d pulled her onto his lap to kiss her. That had led to hot, sweet caresses, and before long, he’d inched his hand under her nightdress to stroke the triangle of curls between her legs, to finger her flesh, already wet for him, and stroke it until she moaned.

  It had been a week of such delights.

  And a week of sheer hell.

  He swore under his breath as the familiar heaviness in his loins grew almost painful. Tonight he would put an end to this limbo one way or the other. He couldn’t go on endlessly craving her body. He wanted to wake up with her at his side after going to sleep in her arms. He wanted to rescue her from her bastard father.

  Right now, however, he couldn’t even rescue her from himself. That was why he’d arrived early. Knowing that Lettice might show up any minute would keep him from going too far. If Juliana rejected his proposal, he wouldn’t stay and torment himself further. And if she accepted, he could wait a few days to enjoy her delights.

  He climbed up the tree outside Juliana’s bedchamber. From the branch, he watched her through the glass. She was at her dressing table, combing her hair, and he sucked in his breath. The mass shimmered like a cascading flame with each stroke.