Stormswept (4 page)

“Nay, but—”

“A sweetheart?”

She shook her head. Then seizing on the only thing she could think of, she said, “I’m not worthy of your attentions. Please, I must go.”

But her words seemed only to hearten him. “Nonsense.” He descended to her step, putting him so close she could feel his warm breath on her forehead. “I don’t care if you’re a servant. Since I have no estate, it scarcely matters. So perhaps I’m unworthy of
you
. At least you do honest labor, while I am still finding my place in the world.”

His self-doubt tugged at her heart. “But you
have
found your place in the world, don’t you see? You show people the truth. That’s important.”

Satisfaction glimmered in his eyes. “Do you find it important, my nameless friend?”

His nearness was crumbling her resolve. “Yes.”

“You are my friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

He drew her toward him. “Good, I can use a friend these days.” His eyes searched hers. “ ‘Give a heart that’s alight / With kindly delight, / Gentleness, faithfulness, and we’ll do right.’ ”

Before she could even register the next verse of Morus’s poem, Mr. Vaughan was lowering his head. Then he pressed his mouth to hers.

At first she was too shocked by the intimacy to move. No one had ever touched her like this. No one had ever been
permitted
to touch her like this. It was the utmost affront to her dignity. And the utmost excitement of her life.

Instinctively, she closed her eyes, wondering if Arthur had kissed Guinevere in this manner. But as Mr. Vaughan moved his lips over hers in a tantalizing rhythm, even those thoughts disintegrated.

When she made a sound deep in her throat, he caught her about the waist, forcing her to clutch his shoulders to keep from falling. The movement brought her flush against him, her skirt crushed between them, and she felt sure he could hear her heart pound madly in her chest.

He kept kissing her, scattering thrills through her body like a ploughman sowing seeds. His mouth was soft and coaxing at first, a mere breath against hers. But as he prolonged the kiss, he shaped her mouth to his with more insistence until she went utterly limp.

“My lady! ” came a sharp voice in English. “Juliana! Stop that at once! ”

Hearing Lettice’s voice was like hearing the voice of God descend from the heavens. With a gasp, Juliana jerked back from Mr. Vaughan and turned a guilty face to Lettice, who had pushed through the crowd into the hall, followed by Mr. Pennant.

Mr. Vaughan ignored them to smile at her. “At last I know your name.”

Then Lettice was beside her. “Come,” she said, pulling Juliana away from Mr. Vaughan. “We must go home.”

“No, stay! ” Mr. Vaughan called out.

As Lettice dragged her up the steps, Juliana looked back at him regretfully. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vaughan. I told you I had to go.”

Lettice paused at the top to shove Juliana behind her and glare down at him. “You’re a fine man, and I wish you luck, but Juliana is not for you! ”

Mr. Vaughan’s eyes blazed as he took a step up. “Why not?”

“It’s better to let the women leave,” Mr. Pennant said as Lettice thrust Juliana out the door and into the street.

“I knew something dreadful would happen if I let you stay.” Lettice broke into a quick stride, still clasping Juliana’s arm. “You must not have told him who you were, or he wouldn’t have been putting his hands on you like that.”

“I tried to get away from him, truly I did. But he was so . . . so . . .” Wonderful. “He quoted Huw Morus to me. He quoted ‘Praise of a Girl.’ ”

“Aye, I’ll bet he did. He’s smooth as a fine brandy, that one. But brandy also has a bite, and so does he. That squire’s son isn’t what you need.”

Juliana tipped up her chin. “It was merely a kiss.” The only kiss she’d ever had, and it had stripped her youth from her in one clean swipe.

“Juliana! ” came a shout from behind them. Mr. Vaughan had broken free of Mr. Pennant.

Instinctively Juliana turned, but Lettice yanked her forward. “Don’t look back. You’ll only encourage him.”

Juliana choked off her protest. Lettice was right. Rhys Vaughan might speak like an angel and kiss like someone out of a Welsh myth, but the minute he found out who she was, he’d spurn her. Better to get the pain over with now, before she let herself hope too much.

So when he called her name the second time, she kept walking and didn’t look back.

Such my woes, sorrow’s harvest,

She, day-bright, won’t let me rest.

Spellbinder, lovely goddess,

Speaks to my ears magic, no less.

—DAFYDD AP GWILYM, “HIS AFFLICTION”

R
hys stared hungrily after the woman named Juliana. “Tell me who she is.”

“Forget about the girl, all right?” Morgan snapped.

“Why?”

“As Lettice said, she’s not for you.”

Coming from Morgan, that stung, and his friend was wrong anyway. Rhys could still feel her lips softening under his, could see her brilliant eyes grow dreamy at his words.

But why would Miss Johnes and Morgan say such a thing? Wait—hadn’t Miss Johnes called Juliana “my lady”? Surely not.

Though that would explain why she was “not for him.” Servants didn’t speak cultured archaic Welsh, or know poetry or have such soft skin. She should have smelled of lye, not lavender. “She’s isn’t a servant, is she?”

Morgan sighed. “Nay.”

“I’ll make a nuisance of myself trying to find out who she is, if you don’t tell me.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, she’s English.”

Rhys’s jaw dropped. “But she spoke beautiful Welsh.”

“She’s fluent in it. From what Lettice says, she’s a bit of a bluestocking, and likes to read Welsh tales and such.”

The blood rushed to Rhys’s head as he tried to remember if she’d had an accent. God, as if he could tell. English was his own native language. Father had always made them speak it at home. He’d learned Welsh from the servants.

Then something else Morgan said made his throat grow dry. “A bluestocking? How did a bluestocking come to be a friend of Miss Johnes?”

With a sigh, Morgan turned back toward his shop. “She’s Lettice’s mistress.”

“Mistress! ” A slow dread burned through him. “And her name?”

Morgan glanced at him with pity. “Lady Juliana St. Albans. Her father is the Earl of Northcliffe.”

Feeling sick, Rhys stared at Morgan. Northcliffe had killed Father as surely as if he’d pushed him into the river himself.

Then he remembered how sweetly Juliana had encouraged him during the lecture. “I don’t believe you! ”

“She followed Lettice here this eve, and Lettice didn’t send her home.”

God help them all. As he realized why the woman must
have sneaked into their meeting, Rhys tensed. “That little, conniving—”

“Here now, don’t talk that way about the lady. I understand why you’re upset, but—”

“Lady?” Rhys whirled on him. “What was the ‘lady’ doing at a gathering like this?”

“Just curious, I suppose. Lady Juliana does like Welsh things.”

“By thunder, why didn’t you warn me who she was?” He felt like breaking something, like tearing into someone, anyone. Why did she have to be Northcliffe’s spawn?

“So you could badger her for her father’s crimes? Lettice would’ve cut out my tongue if I’d caused trouble for her mistress.”

“Her mistress could cause trouble for us! She could name our members to her father, and we’d all find ourselves hounded by the burgesses. You know how fond the press gangs are of carrying off radicals to serve in His Majesty’s Navy.”

“She wouldn’t turn us over,” Morgan protested, a bit nervously.

“She might do it for her father.”

“I don’t think so. Besides, she’s only a girl.”

“Nay.” Rhys thought of her soft body pressed to his. “Lady Juliana is not ‘only a girl.’ ”

“Perhaps not, but you’re accusing her of being a spy.” Morgan laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re thinking with your cock. She’s a pretty thing you can’t touch, so you’re taking that out on her.”

Rhys recoiled from the truth in Morgan’s words. “Don’t
talk to me as if I’m some green lad. I know all about her family’s damnable tricks. Leave me be, and I’ll take care of this.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Rhys stalked off, wanting to be away from Morgan and his too-sound logic.

“Don’t do anything foolish, lad! ” Morgan called after him.

Rhys kept heading for the river. “Damn, damn, damn. Not only English, but the earl’s own daughter.”

He could still hear her saying she wasn’t worthy of him. What stupid answer had he given? Ah yes, that he might not be worthy of her since she did honest labor. Hah! Her “honest labor” was sneaking about at night, spying on her father’s enemies, seducing them with her smiles.

He pounded his fist into his palm and tried to blot out her image, the intent expression she’d worn as he’d talked, the satiny texture of her cheek, her yielding lips—

Damn her for doing this to him! How could a woman look so innocent and be so deceitful?

And she’d certainly looked innocent. Not so much beautiful as arresting. The wide eyes and full mouth had seemed to signal a generosity of spirit, as well as an unconscious sensuality. She hadn’t flirted, hadn’t smiled coyly, and she’d kissed with an untutored wonder.

His eyes narrowed. Obviously, he was more easily fooled by appearances than he’d thought.

By now he’d reached the bridge. He strode along it, then stopped at the railing to stare into the swirling waters where his father had leapt to his death.

“May God have mercy on his soul.”

Anguish hit Rhys anew. If only he’d been here a month ago, instead of racing back from Paris, summoned by an urgent letter from his father that read, “I lost Llynwydd, son.”

Why hadn’t he followed his instincts the first time Father suggested sending him away? He should have refused to leave. But Father had insisted that he acquire an “education befitting a gentleman.”

That was all well and good for a boy who didn’t have to shore up the family estate at every turn, who hadn’t spent his holidays poring over Llynwydd’s books. Left to his own devices, Father had never been able to settle his mind to work, and he’d always relied too heavily on a land agent who overlooked his outrageous expenditures.

So while Rhys had played the dutiful son in Paris, making stupid notes on French architecture and history and art by day, and meeting with philosophes at night, the damned Earl of Northcliffe had deceived his father into gambling away Rhys’s inheritance. While Rhys had been traveling back across the Channel, numb with shock from his father’s letter after it finally reached him, his father had been throwing himself into the Towy. Rhys had arrived just in time to watch them pull the body from the river.

“Well, Father,” he said, looking down into the unforgiving waters, “I’m a squire now. What good is my proper education to either of us?”

The whistling wind was his only answer.

He stared out into the unfeeling night. “But I’m going to make it right. You’ll see.”

He’d already been to a solicitor about the possibility of regaining Llynwydd. The man claimed Rhys had a chance of winning a dispute over the property, since his father had not been “in his right mind” when he’d signed it over to the earl, and since there were rumors that the earl had cheated. The solicitor and his agents had been gathering facts for the case, having already notified the earl that Rhys was disputing the transfer of ownership.

But apparently Lord Northcliffe had his own methods for stopping Rhys—like sending his daughter to the Sons of Wales meeting, where she could take note of every radical in the place. Such knowledge would be useful to a man known for intimidation.

Well, Rhys would put a stop to that. He’d go to Northcliffe Hall and set the damned earl straight before this spying business went any further. And if Lady Juliana was there, he’d set her straight, too.

The next morning, Juliana sat in the breakfast room, swirling her spoon in her hot chocolate. How
wonderful
Mr. Vaughan had been, so learned, so . . . fiery.