Stormswept (37 page)

And what were those reasons, which had seemed so convincing at the time?

Reason one: dislike of his Welsh blood. It was unlikely that the woman who’d danced with Welsh laborers, who’d
endured holding a snake under her skirts so she could help a Welsh boy receive schooling, would be ashamed of her husband’s Welshness.

Reason two: a desire for riches. If living with Juliana had taught him anything, it was that she wholly lacked that desire. Though he’d made all his wealth available to her, she hadn’t ordered expensive gowns or pressured him to buy frivolous items for her.

Reason three: his lack of a title. That one, he couldn’t be entirely sure of. Yet her concern for her betrothed had revolved around the man’s feelings, not his status. She didn’t seem to care that she’d lost her chance to be a marchioness.

Now he came to the last, most convincing one.

Reason four: her fear that Rhys was marrying her for her property.

It was true that if Juliana had believed that, she would have rejected him. She’d put much store in having a husband who wanted her for herself.

But he hadn’t known Llynwydd was deeded to her, and he felt certain she’d realized that. Besides, she’d asked him once if he was marrying her to strengthen his claim on Llynwydd, and when he’d denied it, she’d seemed to believe him.

Now that he considered it all together, none of Northcliffe’s reasons were that convincing. Faced with everything he knew of her, Rhys couldn’t believe she’d have thrown him aside so ruthlessly.

But what about the damned innkeeper? What about the fact that no one could have known where to find them without her help? What about Northcliffe claiming to
have learned about the Sons of Wales from her? And why had her brothers continued to insist that she’d betrayed him, even after he’d returned?

She’d given him no reason for that.

Yet there must be one. And like her reasons for hiding the marriage, which, though they rankled, were sound, there must be a good explanation for everything. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so busy convincing himself that she’d betrayed him, he might have examined it more thoroughly. If he asked the right questions, he could probably find answers.

But he didn’t need to anymore. He simply couldn’t believe she’d betrayed him, no matter what the innkeeper or her brothers said. Her brothers had lied, the innkeeper had lied . . . damn it all, the whole world had lied.

She was innocent. He would swear it. And he’d known it for some time.

So what was preventing him from putting all his faith in his lovely wife, who, in Evan’s words, was “the finest woman in all of Wales”?

Morgan’s words from weeks ago hit him full force.
If you accept that she didn’t betray you, then you can’t force her to stay with you. You’d have to let her choose between marriage to you or separation. You’d have to take the chance of losing her . . . And you won’t risk that, will you?

With a curse, Rhys jumped to his feet. Morgan was right. At the root of his distrust was a horrible fear—that given the choice, she would not choose him.

And how could she? He’d refused to have faith in her when she’d waited for him until all hope was gone. After
his return he’d publicly maligned her, carried her off like a pirate with his booty, and nearly raped her.

And she was a sweet, generous woman whom he shouldn’t even be allowed to touch! Why had he mistreated her so?

He thought back to when he’d first discovered her identity. He’d been angry that he couldn’t have the English earl’s daughter, so he’d struck out, trying to bring her down to his level by accusing her of being a spy.

The fear that she would find herself too good for him had made him mistreat her. It was like what the navy had done to him. Each time they’d lashed him to that spar, each time they’d brought the cat down to tear the skin from his back, they’d told him he was miserable and worthless, a puny Welshman not good for anything but fish bait.

But what they’d really meant was,
You damned squire’s son, with your education and your proper manners—you’re too smart and too strong willed for the navy, and we hate you for it.
So they’d sought to chain him by making him like them—scared and stupefied by grog.

And he’d tried to chain her, too. He’d bullied her, and when that hadn’t worked, seduced her to stay, all the while trying to tell her that she wasn’t worthy of him, when he knew in his heart that he was the unworthy one. Worst of all, he’d never given her the choice of staying.

How could he have? She wouldn’t have chosen the despicable creature who’d been nothing but a torment to her.

Yet the image of them standing together before the mirror flickered into his mind.
I will always love you. Don’t you
see? As long as I have life or breath, there will never be anyone else.

He shoved his hand in his pocket to grip the pieces of the love spoon that he’d carried around with him ever since yesterday.

It made no sense that she would love him, that she’d choose him over a wealthy English nobleman. His mind told him it couldn’t be true. But for once, he had to believe what his heart said. And his heart said that she loved him, and would never betray him. His heart said to trust her.

So trust her, he must. For there was no other way he would find peace and keep her love.

I have my choice, beauty bright as a wave,

Wise in your riches, your graceful Welsh.

I have chosen you.

—HYWEL AB OWAIN GWYNEDD, “HYWEL’S CHOICE”

R
hys wasn’t coming, or he’d surely have been here by now. Juliana had half-expected him to appear yesterday to bear her away from the lion’s den, but he hadn’t . . . nor sent word, either.

A footman entered the drawing room and handed her a package. “A messenger brought this for you, my lady.”

There was no card. She opened the expensively wrapped box to find a lace purse. She looked inside and found a slip of paper bearing only one sentence—
Everything I own is yours.

Rhys! She leapt up. “Where’s the man who brought this?”

“ ’Twasn’t a man, my lady, but a boy. And he’s gone.”

She sank into the chair. She knew it was from Rhys; it was his handwriting. He’d sent a gift, but hadn’t come himself. There was no cause yet for joy.

Two hours passed, and a second gift arrived—a heart-shaped gold locket in a Celtic design. This time the slip of paper inside the box read,
My heart is yours
.

It was sweet, but she wanted him, not his gifts, dear as they might be.

By the time the third gift, a volume of ballads by Dafydd Jones titled
Bloedeugerdd Cymru
, arrived, she sighed as she opened it to find inscribed on the frontispiece the words,
My soul is yours
.

Oh, my darling, my soul is yours, too. But if you give me your soul, you must give me your trust. So where are you?

She fretted while she dressed for dinner, donning her best gown of emerald satin. It made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow like cream, but if Rhys didn’t come it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore if he refused to be here with her.

She spread his gifts out on a writing table. What was he trying to say? If he was asking her forgiveness, he’d certainly chosen a dramatic way to do it. But Rhys had always known how to hold an audience.

And she wanted more than gifts and sweet words. If he couldn’t be here to show her his love and trust, then he was not the man she wanted. And no amount of gifts would change her mind.

She glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for dinner.

A footman appeared at the door. “My lady? Another gift has arrived, and the bearer wishes to speak to you.”

She nodded, her heart sinking. This meant one thing—Rhys had refused to come to dinner, and had sent someone
to make his excuses. Numbly, she followed the footman to the entrance hall.

And there, staring at her with a solemn gaze, stood her husband.

Hope leapt in her chest. He was splendidly bedecked in a cobalt coat and breeches of shot silk that made his eyes burn brightly in the candlelight. His embroidered waistcoat was his best, his neckcloth was immaculately tied, and his shirt sparkled white against the dark blue of his coat.

He looked like any gentleman arriving for dinner with an earl and a marquess. But his rigid stance told her this wasn’t easy for him. He was a proud man being forced to bend his will to another, and he clearly disliked it.

Which made his coming all the more wonderful.

“Leave us,” he commanded the footman.

She bit back a smile. His arrogance wasn’t gone. But he’d come to join her, which was all that mattered.

She walked toward him, her breath quickening as he followed her with a hungry, ardent gaze. Then he held something out to her—the love spoon split in two.

Her breath caught. Surely he wasn’t saying . . .

“In my thoughtless anger, I broke it.” He closed her hand around the pieces. “And I need you to help me mend it, my love. For I can’t live in peace until it’s whole again. I only hope I haven’t left the repair until too late.”

Her heart swelled with love that he could take his pride in his hands and come to her like this. He wasn’t easy to live with. His years at sea had made him more impatient and quick to find fault. But he was fair and truthful, even
in his arrogance. And he did love her. She could see it in his eyes.

“It’s not too late,” she told him joyously. “It’s never too late.”

At her words, the fear drained from his face. He dragged her into his arms and caught her mouth in a long kiss so gentle and loving, she knew she’d remember it for the rest of her life.

He drew back to cup her face in his hands. “Never leave me again. Ask me for anything else. But never leave me.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I have no intention of leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

He buried his face in her neck. “Good. These past two days have been torture. If you’d wanted to punish me, you couldn’t have found a better way.”

“I didn’t want to punish you, but to make you see what we could have if you would trust me.”

He looked up to meet her eyes. “And I do. I’ve learned that if I don’t have faith in you, I can’t have faith in anything in this world. For you’re the only one I trust—even more than myself.”

“Oh, Rhys,” she said, melting. “I have waited so long to hear you say that.” She scattered kisses over his lips, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. “But why did you send me all those gifts? I was afraid it was in lieu of your coming.”

He nuzzled her hair. “I was afraid to just show up on your doorstep with my heart in my hands. I thought you might be so angry at me for waiting to come here, that you wouldn’t even speak to me.”

“I am much happier to have your heart and soul, as you have mine. And your trust. At long last.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve been such a fool, my love. In so many ways that I scarcely know where to begin apologizing, but—”

A knock at the door made them both start. It took them a moment to come back to earth, to realize they stood in Northcliffe Hall.

She flashed him a rueful smile. “I hate to interrupt your lovely confession, dear husband. But that is probably Lord Devon.”

To Rhys’s credit, he managed to keep an even expression.

“I must let him in, you know,” she added.

“Yes. I know you must.”

“And it would probably be best if I greeted him alone first.”

“As you wish. I came here because I understand what you feel you must do.”

She handed him the pieces of the love spoon, then pointed to the dining room. “Go there and wait for me. I promise I’ll only be a few moments.”

He nodded, but as she slid past him, headed for the door, he caught her and bent her over his arm to give her a hot, possessive kiss.

When he let her up, her head was spinning. “What was that for?”

“To give you something to remember while you’re speaking to your former betrothed.” Then he strolled off, looking markedly more sure of himself.

With a laugh, she opened the door.

It was indeed Stephen, who looked startled to see her answer it. “Good evening, Juliana.”

“Good evening, Stephen. Won’t you come in?”

He entered the house, watching her with a sober look as a servant hurried in to take his greatcoat and hat.

“The others haven’t come downstairs yet. Shall we wait for them in the drawing room?”

“Whatever you wish.”

As soon as they’d gone inside, she closed the door. Now that she was face-to-face with him, it was hard to know exactly what to say. His air of aloof dignity made him look so terribly noble, she wasn’t certain how to approach him. Had she once thought to live with him, to share a bed with him and bear his children? No doubt they would have had a tolerable marriage, but compared to what she had with Rhys, it would have been a pale substitute.

As if sensing her discomfort, he spoke first. “Seeing you here at least answers one of my questions. Vaughan is obviously not keeping you a prisoner.”

“No.” She managed a smile. “I’m at Llynwydd because I choose to be. I’m happy there.”