She pushed him away and fled for the stairs. “Leave, Darcy.” She held her hand to her cheek, which bore the imprint of his hand. “Please, just leave.”
He took a step toward her.
“You promised not to hurt me. Did you lie about that, too?”
The words slid into his gut like a sharp blade. She feared him now, and rightfully so. He’d made her fear him.
He backed away, afraid of what he might do if he got any closer. Right now she had cause to fear him. But if he came near her again, he might give her cause to hate him.
“Please go,” she repeated.
He felt as if someone had wrenched his heart from his chest. “All right. But you’ll come to your senses eventually and see that you love me as I love you. He’ll never be good enough for you.”
When he walked out and closed the door, he stood there listening to her sobs. Despite his brave words, he knew he’d lost her in a moment of blind stupidity.
How in God’s name would he ever endure it?
15
No profit, though near dead,
I’ve had of this white maid,
Save to love all entire
And languish with desire,
To praise her through the hills
Yet, solitary still,
To wish her at nightfall
Betwixt me and the wall.
—DAFYDD AP GWILYM, “THE GREY FRIAR”
And will dinner be at the usual time?” Mrs. Roberts asked, three days after Juliana’s return to Llynwydd.
“Yes.” Juliana rolled her eyes. “Unless Squire Arrogance decrees otherwise.”
Mrs. Roberts laughed. “He still thinks he makes the rules? Men are such fools.”
Generally Juliana ignored Mrs. Roberts’s thinly disguised attempts to find out what was going on between the master and the mistress, but today she was just angry enough to give the woman an earful. “Yes, but they all certainly stick together. I’ve won a skirmish in the kitchen, but lost one in the stables.”
“The groom refused to saddle you a horse again, eh?” Mrs. Roberts clucked sympathetically. “Well, milady, I’m sorry for it. I know you miss your daily ride. But you’ll be at it again once the master realizes how silly it is to keep you from it.” She smoothed her apron. “I’d best get back to work.”
As the woman bustled off, Juliana frowned. The household had fallen into two distinct camps divided entirely by sex. It infuriated her.
All the wretched footmen and grooms were under Rhys’s thumb. Some of them were newly hired, so their loyalty was understandable. But she had hired the blasted groom who’d thwarted her this morning. He’d hemmed and hawed and begged her pardon, but in the end, he’d refused to saddle her horse.
Like his male companions, he’d thrown in his lot with Rhys. Her husband had only to spin a few tales about his battles at sea and his experiences in America, and they were ready to die for “the brave master.”
At least the women were on her side, too practical to be swayed by stories of adventure. Behind Rhys’s back, they came to her for instructions. Mrs. Roberts was the most blatant, nodding and saying, “Yes, sir,” to Rhys’s commands, then coming to Juliana to ask what she wanted done.
And Cook! Juliana chuckled. Cook had baldly told Squire Arrogance that she wasn’t so foolish as to take her orders from a man who hadn’t the faintest idea what went on in a kitchen. He’d pointed out that he could dismiss her for such insubordination, and she’d told him he knew better than to dismiss the only woman who could cook a cawl fit for a king. She’d been right, of course.
So Juliana had gone on planning meals, and Rhys had kept silent on that, just as he’d acquiesced when she’d had the maids move her clothing and jewel cases to the Blue Room.
But he and Moss discussed all improvements without her. She was forbidden the stables. And any outing she took in the carriage had to be approved by him, which invariably meant he went along.
It was insulting. And she dared not complain, for his answer was always “When you share my bed, I’ll share the estate.” Since he accompanied the pronouncement with a look that sent dangerously delightful shivers along her spine, she’d stopped complaining.
Instead she’d thrown herself into improving the squire hall. While he surveyed the tenant farms with an eye toward improvements, she clandestinely used her funds to order new drapes and linens. While he consulted with the estate blacksmith, carpenter, and gardener, she consulted with the housekeeper and oversaw the maids. It wasn’t hard to keep busy, although many of her former duties had been taken from her. She used the time to catch up on tasks she’d put off before—cleaning out the attic, taking stock of her wardrobe, deciding which books needed new bindings.
She rarely saw Rhys, and when she did, he was unrelenting in his determination to shut her out of the workings of the estate. Only when they shared dinner were they cordial, as if there was an unspoken truce. He continued to recount tales about America, and she’d begun relating all that had happened to the estate after he’d left.
But once dinner was over, she always excused herself before he could turn the full force of his seductive talents on her. Fleeing to the Blue Room, she spent her nights remembering every blazing look he’d given her at dinner, every brush of his hand as he led her to her place, every kiss he pressed to her cheek.
As if guessing what his reticence did to her, he hadn’t again tried to kiss her mouth or hold her. He had to know it was driving her insane.
“Milady?” asked the butler.
Oh bother, she’d been standing here like a half-wit. “Yes, what is it?”
“Master Evan is here. He said you’re expecting him for a lesson.”
She groaned. “I completely forgot.” And she hadn’t even gotten his paper ready yet. “Send him to the kitchen and tell Cook to give him some tea and apple tarts to take up to the schoolroom. I’ll be there shortly.”
As the butler left, she hurried into the study and drew ten sheets of paper from the drawer. Then she held the edges over the candle flame to singe them, waving them in the air to dispel the smoke.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” came a voice from the doorway.
She whirled to face Rhys. “I swear, you have the most disturbing habit of sneaking up on a person.”
“You have some peculiar habits yourself—like destroying perfectly good paper.”
“I’m not destroying it. I’m merely . . . dirtying it up.” She pulled out ten more sheets. “It’s for Evan.”
He leaned against the door frame. “Ah, yes. The boy who took the stained paper off your hands. I take it the ‘staining’ was no accident, either.”
“Of course not. He won’t take good paper from me, so I have to spoil it for him. He’s here for his lesson, and I’d forgotten all about the paper.”
“May I come along?”
Her gaze shot to him. “Why?”
“Since I’ve agreed to do what I can to provide an education for your charge, I ought to be allowed to meet him. Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” Except that it would mean spending time with Rhys.
Gathering up the sheets, she walked toward the door. “I usually tutor him in the schoolroom.”
Rhys shifted position, but didn’t give her enough room to pass without touching him. She could feel his eyes hot upon her, and imagine she felt his breath on her neck.
As soon as she was past him she quickened her pace, but he fell easily into step beside her, settling his hand on her waist in that possessive gesture so common to men. Her breathing began an uneven rhythm she could hardly hide. Nor did it get any better as they climbed the stairs, with his hand riding on her waist as if to steady her when she knew he really did it to provoke her.
Unfortunately, it was working. She was overwhelmingly aware of his lean body beside her, moving with the lithe grace of a Thoroughbred—his thighs flexing beneath the glove-tight breeches, his arm brushing her back every time she took a
step, his fingers resting in the small of her back just inches above her hips.
Oh bother, he was such a devil. So what if he had a fine body? He was an untrusting, stubborn wretch, and totally unworthy of her attention.
Still, by the time they’d reached the schoolroom, her blood was racing and her body aflame. With profound relief, she escaped him to cross the room.
Thankfully Evan took her mind off Rhys. He had apparently either refused the tea and tarts or had wolfed them down, for he now sat engrossed in a book she’d acquired yesterday—Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Oblivious to her and Rhys, he hunched over the book, eating up the pages. It never ceased to astonish her that he could read at such a pace.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” Juliana said gently.
Evan gave a start, his cheeks flushing as he saw her and Rhys. Shutting the book, he jumped up and gave a bow. “Good day, my lady. I hope you don’t mind. I saw the new book and—”
“Don’t be silly.” She smiled. “I’m glad you took the chance to look it over. How is it?”
He shrugged. “Interesting, I suppose.”
“I thought it might amuse you.” When Evan cast Rhys a curious glance, she said, “Allow me to introduce my husband, Squire Vaughan. He wants to observe the lesson today.”
Evan’s eyes widened. “ ’Tis a pleasure to meet you at last, sir.”
“For me as well,” Rhys said with a hint of amusement.
Juliana took her seat and barely gave time for Rhys and Evan to sit before she launched into the lesson, eager to get this over with so she could escape her husband.
If Evan was surprised that she spent no time chatting with him about his mother or the farm, he didn’t show it. Nor did he seem uncomfortable having Rhys watch them. If anything, he showed off—conjugating French verbs with obvious pride, then reeling off a dozen new words he’d learned from the poem she’d assigned him to memorize.
“And what is Gruffydd’s speaker lamenting here?” she prompted after he recited a particularly complicated line.
Evan thought a moment. “Is he saying he can’t talk poetry while he’s wandering?”
“ ‘Recite’ poetry,” she corrected. “But that’s not it exactly. He grieves for the old ways that are no longer valued. He says no one wants to hear Welsh verses recited anymore, so he must keep his ‘poet’s trade’ hidden.”
Rhys spoke for the first time since they’d begun the lesson. “In Gruffydd’s day, there were few who would stand up to the English. The Welsh language was considered ignorant, and some Welshmen refused to use it. So Gruffydd felt like a stranger in his own land, ‘betrayed to wander the world in search of aid.’ ”
She swung her gaze to Rhys, who was watching her as if trying to fathom her. Gruffydd’s poem had been one of their mutual favorites. Did he remember? And had he guessed that she’d chosen it for Evan for that very reason?
His gaze was soft as he stared at her.
Evan spoke up, oblivious to the sudden current in the air. “Mr. Gruffydd is like you, Mr. Vaughan, isn’t he?”
Rhys lifted an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Well, you had to wander the world, too, and give up your poet’s trade.”
When Rhys glanced at her, she said coolly, “Evan has always been interested in your . . . situation.”
“Oh, more than that, sir,” Evan blurted out. “I think you’re a great hero, to fight so nobly for the Welsh cause, even when it meant being taken by the press gangs.”
She could still feel Rhys’s gaze, but she wouldn’t look at him. “I told Evan how you were forced into the navy.”
Evan warmed to his subject. “She told me how you said we should speak Welsh if we like. And she told me about your poetry. I’ve read all your poems.”
“How did you manage that, when they were never published?”
“Lady Juliana let me read them in the book you gave her. Oh, sir, they were wonderful.”
“Really?” His gaze now bore into her.
“Aye. She told me all about you.” Evan leaned forward confidentially. “She said you were very special.”
Oh, why must Evan be so talkative? “Let’s get on with the lesson, shall we?”
“No, this is much more interesting,” Rhys said. “So Evan, did she tell you what she meant by ‘special’?”
“I don’t know. Like a hero. You know, like the man all the girls in the books fall in love with.”
“And did she say she’d fallen in love with me?”
Evan shot Juliana an uncertain glance. “Well, not exactly. But she talked about you like . . . like my sister Mary when she talks about that shopkeeper in town.”
Rhys leaned back to cross his arms over his chest. “Ah, but if I were her ‘true love,’ why did she go off to marry that other fellow?”
Juliana fought down anger. Dear heaven, would he never understand?
“She said ’tweren’t a husband she wanted, but children. And since you weren’t here, and she thought you were never coming back—”
“Didn’t she say anything about love?” A faint mockery was in his tone.
Juliana glared at him. Rhys had never bothered to ask her if she’d been in love with Stephen, yet here he was, badgering the poor boy for his answers.
“My, but we’ve gone far afield of our lesson.” She tried for a light tone. “Let’s get back to it, shall we?”
Rhys’s gaze locked with hers. “Evan hasn’t answered my question. Tell me, lad—did Lady Juliana say she was in love with Lord Devon?”
“Not to me.” Evan shifted uneasily, having finally begun to sense tension in the air. “She wanted a husband who would give her children. That’s all.”
Rhys’s mouth tightened. “But I was already her husband. Did she admit that?”
“No.” When Rhys frowned, he added, “But you mustn’t blame her for it. She thought you were dead. Everyone thought you were dead.”
Rhys smiled ruefully. “You do have a point, Evan.”
“She used to cry about it,” Evan persisted, determined to defend Juliana. “I’d hear her after we’d read one of your poems. She would cry in the garden.”
Rhys’s gaze burned into her, and she turned away.
“That’s enough. Evan has lessons to do and—”
“I think Evan has done so well today that he deserves a rest from lessons,” Rhys broke in. “Evan, why don’t you go down to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Roberts I said to give you a pork pie?”
Evan looked to Juliana, and she sighed. There was no point in trying to continue the lessons with Rhys asking probing questions. In truth, she’d rather have Evan out of it. “Do as Rhys says.”
“Should I come back tomorrow?”
She nodded, her throat too tight for speech.
Only after he left did she remember she still had his charred paper. She leapt up and said, “Oh dear, I forgot to give him—”
Rhys stayed her with one hand. “You can give it to him tomorrow.”
They listened until the sound of Evan’s footsteps faded. Then Rhys took the paper from her and laid it aside.
He was so close now that she could smell the musky scent of him, see the glitter in his eyes. There was no telling what he thought of Evan’s revelations. He might even think she’d put Evan up to it.
His back was to the window, and the late afternoon sunlight glanced off his hair, giving him a halo. Yet he was no angel. He’d had heaven dangled in front of him and snatched away one too many times.
Even now he looked as if he waited for the push that would send him plummeting to earth. “Tell me, wife. Were you . . . are you in love with the marquess?”
She met his gaze boldly. “Nay. I once thought I could grow to love him. But I know better now.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Relief? Hope?
Then he drew her into his arms. “Why did you tell Evan about me and let him read my poems?” he asked in a rough rasp. “Why cry for me, after you tossed me aside so easily?”
“I told you: I loved you.”
“But you kept our marriage secret, even from the boy. Why, if you were in love with me?”
She tensed. “Because I was scared and weak. No more.”
He searched her face. “I no longer know what to believe. My mind tells me your claims make no sense. And yet—”
“You know the truth in your heart,” she said, laying her hand on his cheek. “If only you’d heed it.”
“I only know one thing for certain. That I still want you.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “God, how I want you.”
Next he kissed her temple and she nuzzled his chin, seduced into forgetting that he didn’t believe her . . . wouldn’t believe her. His heart knew the truth, and his heart was guiding him at the moment.
His mouth skirted the edge of her cheekbone, gliding down the curved line of her jaw so he could tongue her throat. “ ’Tis like the men who disappear into the fairy circle.” He tugged her mob cap loose to bring her hair down about her shoulders. “While they are in the enchantment, they know no rational thought. Only when they leave do they realize they’ve been seduced by a dream.”
“Am I a dream, then?”
His lips hovered above hers as he stared down at her, eyes glittering. “One of you must be. Either the woman I fell in love with—or the woman I hold in my arms now.”
“They’re one and the same, and no dream, either. That, I can prove.” Then she lifted her lips to meet his.
With a groan, he took her mouth, burying his fingers in her hair to hold her still. Desire jolted her. She’d lain awake too many nights remembering their last kiss, too many years remembering their lovemaking. It would turn a nun into a wanton, and she was no nun.
So when he sought to deepen the kiss, she let him. She opened her mouth so he could tangle his tongue with hers so wonderfully that her pulse quickened and her blood heated.
“By thunder,” he murmured, “you taste sweeter with each kiss. What sort of sorcery is this?”
“The best kind.”
Hunger leapt in his eyes and he plundered her mouth once more. With his hands clasping her head, he drove his tongue deep, delving for sweetness, offering heat in return. His body strained against hers in an ancient fight for domination that she was only too happy to yield. Winding her arms about his waist, she dovetailed into him, curving her body around his taut arousal.
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