Thunder and Roses (41 page)

“Are you serious?”

“God’s own truth,” he assured her. “Plus fireworks, parades, and a jolly, vulgar fair for the groundlings. If you’d like to see the spectacle, I’ll bring you back to London then.”

“I can’t look two months ahead—I can barely imagine how to get through the next day.” She looked up, her deep blue eyes haunted: “We can’t go on as we have. Surely you can see that.”

His mouth tightened. “Why not?”

“We’ve been playing a dangerous game of seduction and teasing, pushing closer and closer to each other’s limits,” she said bluntly. “Between my hysteria and your frustration, we’ll destroy each other if we don’t stop.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said with deep reluctance. “What do you propose instead?”

“Surely it would be easiest for both of us if I went home to Penreith.”

A wave of anxiety swept through him. “What I said before still stands,” he said harshly. “Leave before the three months are over and I’ll drop my plans for the valley.”

She stopped walking and stared at him. “I simply don’t understand why you care that much about my presence or absence. By this time, I would think that you would want to pursue matters at the mine if only to vex Lord Michael.”

He didn’t understand himself, but he knew damned well that he didn’t want her to go. He started to lift his hand, instinctively wanting to persuade her with touch. She tensed in a subtle but unmistakable withdrawal.

His stomach knotted and he dropped his hand. If she started to fear him, he would be unable to bear it. He could think of only one acceptable solution, though he hated the thought. “I’ll waive my daily kiss. That should make it possible for us to be together without losing our sanity. Wasn’t chaste abstinence what you originally suggested as a stake when we started playing billiards last night?”

Her brows drew together. “Now I understand you even less. You flatly refused to consider giving up your kisses last night.”

“That was then. This is now.” He took her arm and started her walking again, relaxing since it seemed that he would carry his point. “It should be obvious that I enjoy your company. When we return to Aberdare, maybe I’ll look into getting a dog, but for the time being, you’ll have to do.”

She smiled, her expression easing. “Since you put it in such flattering terms, how can I refuse?”

He was glad to see her smile. But as they walked back to Aberdare House, he glumly faced the fact that he had only two months to convince her to stay with him, and he could no longer use passion to persuade her.

 
The Duke of Candover returned home to find his houseguest on the verge of leaving. Concealing his uneasiness, Rafe said, “Have I neglected you too much, Michael?”

Face expressionless, his friend said, “Not at all. However, I can’t afford to waste any more time lying around like an invalid—I’ve too much to do. There’s nothing wrong with me—I’ve had worse knocks on the head by walking into doors.” Remembering his manners, he added, “T
hank
you for putting me up.”

“Why not give up your rooms and stay here?” Rafe suggested. “It’s such a bloody great barn that I’d enjoy the company.”

“I’ll be leaving London. I’ve neglected my business interests for too long— it’s time I visited them in person.”

Rafe felt the back of his neck prickle. “Does that include your mine in Penreith?”

Michael accepted his hat from the butler and put it on, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes. “As a matter of fact, it does.”

The duke felt like swearing. “One war has just ended. I hope you’re not going to start another one.”

“No one loves peace more than a retired soldier,” Michael said, his expression cool and unreadable. “I’ll let you know when I return to London.”

He turned and walked out the front door without looking back.

22

 
For the
Morrises
, Sunday was a day for the family as well as the Lord. Usually that included a walk after the midday meal. Sometimes Marged came, but more often she stayed home, saying frankly that she liked a bit of quiet now and then. For his part, Owen enjoyed the time alone with his children. If a man didn’t make the effort, it would be easy to miss the growing years.

It was a very Welsh sort of day, with showers and sunshine taking turns. At the urging of Owen’s older son, Trevor, they took a different track into the hills. Few people came this way, for it ran by Lord Michael Kenyon’s estate, Bryn Manor, where visitors were not welcome. Surrounded by a stone wall, the estate was very different from Aberdare, which was criss-crossed by public pathways. However, Owen knew that as long as they stayed off Kenyon property there would be no problem, and the track was a lovely one on a spring day.

Megan, very much the little lady, walked with her father while the boys raced back and forth like a pack of puppies. It did Owen’s heart good to see little Huw larking about with his own boys. Since leaving the mine, the child seemed to have grown three inches, as well as putting on weight and achieving healthy color. According to Marged, he was an apt pupil, approaching every new lesson with the same hunger that he showed at the kitchen table.

As the trail wound upward, Owen asked Megan, “Your birthday will be here soon. Is there something special you would like?”

She glanced at him askance. “A kitten.”

He raised his brows. “We already have a cat.”

“But I want a kitten,” she explained. “Of my own.”

He hid a smile. “Kittens turn into cats,” he warned her, “and if you get one, you’d have to take care of it yourself. Still, you’ll be ten —almost grown up. If you’re sure that’s what you want, I’ll talk to your mother. If she objects—was

Megan cut him off with an unladylike crow of pleasure. “Mama said to talk to you, and if you didn’t object, it would be all right.
Ethelwyn’s
cat just had kittens. In a fortnight, they’ll be ready to leave their mother.”

Owen grinned. He’d never had a chance. Not that he could deny Megan anything, since she looked so much like her mother.

Contentment was shattered when Trevor bolted out of the woods. “Dada, come quickly, it’s Huw,” he panted. “He wandered off to pick daffodils for Mama, then came racing back like the devil was after him. I asked him what was wrong, but he just cries and won’t answer.”

Owen increased the length of his strides. A few minutes of walking through the trees brought them to the other two children. Huw was sobbing frantically, daffodils clutched incongruously to his chest. Patting him ineffectually on the shoulder was Owen’s younger son David, who greeted his father with relief.

Owen scooped Huw up in his arms and made soothing noises. For all his new growth, he was still only a tiny lad. When the child’s tears had abated, he asked, “What’s wrong,
boyo
?”

Huw rubbed a grubby fist into his eyes. “I … I saw the gates of hell, Uncle Owen.”

In spite of patient questioning, Owen was unable to get a more coherent explanation. At length he said, “Trevor, take David and Megan home now. Huw can show me what he saw.”

Trevor obediently led his younger siblings back to the trail. Huw looked unhappy, but when Owen took his hand he set off willingly enough. They went deeper into the woods until they reached a crumbling stone wall. Huw let go of Owen’s hand and scrambled through a gap in the stonework.

Owen frowned. “This is private land, the Kenyon estate. You shouldn’t have gone in here.”

“I saw daffodils and wanted to pick some to take back to Aunt Marged,” Huw said guiltily. “It’s not far.”

Knowing it would be better for Huw to face his fear rather than have nightmares, Owen squeezed his way through the narrow gap in the wall. On the other side was a ridge, with a drift of brilliant daffodils blooming near the top. Though the hillside was heavily wooded, the branches were still bare so it was possible to see smoke rising from the other side of the ridge.

Expression anxious, Huw looked over his shoulder and touched a finger to his lips. Then he crouched over and made his way stealthily to the crest of the ridge, which overlooked a small hollow. As they settled behind a sheltering shrub, Owen put his arm around Huw and looked down to see what had frightened the boy.

“The gates of hell” proved to be a shabby hut built into the hillside. A trick of the sunlight made the drifting smoke glow infernally, which explained why Huw had misinterpreted the sight. “See, lad, how the sun shines through the smoke from behind?” Owen said. “It’s only a woodsman’s hut.”

Though Huw didn’t reply, he relaxed a little. Yet instead of leaving, Owen regarded the hut curiously. Odd to have so large a fire on a warm spring day.

As they watched, the smoke trickled to a halt, and a few minutes later the door swung open. As two dark-clothed men came out, Huw hid his face against Owen. “Demons,” he whispered.

The men were George Madoc and Huw’s father, Nye Wilkins. Owen’s gaze sharpened. If Huw had gotten an unexpected glimpse of his terrifying parent, it might have contributed to the boy’s belief that he had seen the nether regions.

Madoc closed and locked the door and the two men began walking away, in the opposite direction from their hidden watchers. While he waited for them to disappear from view, Owen considered what he had seen. As Lord Michael Kenyon’s manager, Madoc had a perfect right to be here; Madoc’s own house was on Kenyon property, nearer the village. But his presence at a crude, hidden hut was strange. And why was Nye Wilkins here? At the mine he was something of Madoc’s pet, but this was Sunday. It seemed unlikely that the men would see each other socially; Madoc was too conscious of his superior status.

When the men were safely out of sight, Owen told Huw, “Wait here. I want to take a closer look.”

After making his way quietly down to the hut, Owen peered into one of the small windows. The interior was dominated by a large oven that reminded him of a pottery kiln he’d seen near Swansea. But he couldn’t imagine George Madoc being interested in pottery. He studied the tools and implements set on a crude table.

Some he recognized, some he didn’t.
  

He was thoughtful as he and Huw walked back to the village. Perhaps his imagination was running away with him and nothing of significance was taking place. Nonetheless, when Nicholas Davies returned from London, Owen would tell him about the mysterious hut.

 
Clare learned that living without kisses was much simpler and more comfortable than living on the edge of danger. It was also, alas, much less enjoyable. She missed not only the physical contact itself, but the easy familiarity that had gone with it. Now Nicholas never touched her except in formal ways, such as helping her in and out of a carriage. Though they still conversed easily, part of him had withdrawn. On the return to Aberdare, he rode his horse rather than sitting in the coach with Clare and Polly. That reduced the stress of proximity, but made the journey seem much longer than the trip to London.

Clare felt a strange mix of emotions as she returned to the valley. It was home, the most familiar place in the world. Yet she felt that she was a different woman from the one who had left.

She had changed, and home would never be quite the same.

The first thing she did after arriving at Aberdare was to meet with Rhys Williams. After describing what she had ordered for the house and when her purchases could be expected to arrive, she asked bluntly, “Have any of the servants left because they won’t stay in the house with a depraved, immoral female?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the butler answered with equal bluntness. “Two—Tegwen Elias and Bronwyn Jones. Bronwyn didn’t want to go, but her mother insisted.”

It could have been worse; morality was a serious business in the valley. Clare said, “Will there be more problems?”

“I don’t think so. I could easily have hired two more maids, but thought you’d rather do it yourself when you returned.” He gave a satiric smile. “Jobs are hard to come by. There aren’t many people who will walk away from a good one because of a bit of gossip. I wouldn’t myself.”