She was tired of the Rebecca Riots, she realized suddenly. She was tired of the destruction and the danger. She was tired of worrying about Rebecca. She wanted peace. But if and when the riots came to an end, would she lose Rebecca? Would she ever see him again? Or if she did, would she know him? She would always know him, she told herself. If ever she passed him on a street or occupied the same building with him, she would know him.
But she might well lose him once these nocturnal adventures were at an end.
But not quite yet. Rebecca dismissed her children and they all went their separate ways, Mr. Foster among them. And then Rebecca was at her side, leaning down from his horse, hand extended, as usual. She smiled up at him and set her hand in his and her foot on his boot.
She would not think of the end, she thought, snuggling against him and closing her eyes as they rode off in the direction of her home. Not yet.
Chapter 25
GERAINT was feeling rather euphoric. Despite the various dangers, everything appeared to be working as he had hoped it would. He believed that as the Earl of Wyvern he had enlightened Foster and aroused his sympathies for the rebels. And he believed that as Rebecca he—and all his followers—had stated their case fully and clearly and rationally. Foster had seen tonight that they were not a violent, hysterical mob bent on mindless violence. He had seen, perhaps, that they were people at war against an unjust and oppressive system.
He trusted Foster to see clearly through to the heart of the matter and to write eloquently enough to arouse the interest and sympathy of a London reading public. If it all happened quickly enough, and if a commission of inquiry really was sent to West Wales and consisted of intelligent and open-minded commissioners, then surely all this would soon be over. The necessity for rebelling in order to draw attention would be past.
He would no longer be Rebecca. She would disappear into thin air and only a very few people would ever know who Rebecca had been. Marged would never know. Unconsciously his arm tightened about her as they rode and she muttered something unintelligible and burrowed deeper into his shoulder. She was actually dozing, he thought with a smile. What an amazing woman she was. And how he loved her. Would he lose her forever when Rebecca disappeared? Was there any way on this earth that Geraint Penderyn could win her love? He did not believe so.
He had taken a route that would bring them onto the upland moors above Tegfan and Ty-Gwyn again. He guided his horse toward the ruined hovel that had been home. Yes—home. He had experienced all of a mother’s love here, and more lately he had known the love of a woman here. It was ironic that such a bleak and sorry little hut should have housed so much love. He thought of the magnificence—and the coldness and loneliness—of Tegfan.
Marged stirred as soon as his horse stopped. He dismounted and lifted her down, tethered his horse beside the house, where it would be very difficult for anyone else to see, and lifted down the blanket. Marged was standing waiting for him. He backed her against the wall of the house and kissed her. She was warm and relaxed from sleep. It was amazing, he thought, how quickly one could become dependent upon the love of another person. Not just physical love, though he was aroused and ready for her, but emotional love too. He had become dependent upon her affection and respect and friendship. It was rather frightening when he remembered that those gifts were being given to a man who did not exist. And yet he needed the gifts as he needed air to breathe and water to drink.
“Let us go inside,” he whispered against her lips, “and make ourselves comfortable.”
The warmth and relaxation disappeared. She pushed away from him and turned her back on him, gazing out into the night beyond the corner of the hut.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said.
His stomach lurched. She was with child. Oh, God, she was with child. There was an uncomfortable churning of excitement and despair inside him.
“I love you,” she said. “I did not believe it was possible to love as I love you. And yet—and yet I am not sure I have been faithful to you.”
He stood very still and waited for her to continue.
“When Ceris Williams was arrested two days ago,” she said, “I thought they were going to drag her away to jail and perhaps torture her for information. You heard that she had been arrested, did you? I thought she would be transported even though she was innocent of everything except caring about the safety of the rest of us. So I went to Tegfan and told the Earl of Wyvern that I was the one who had been seen on the road by the smashed gate, not Ceris. I told him I was one of your followers.” She paused. “I even told him we were lovers.”
Marged! So incurably honest. He knew now what she was going to say to him, though he wondered exactly how she would describe it.
“That was incredibly brave of you, cariad,” he said.
“Incredibly foolish,” she said with a bleak little laugh. “I still do not know quite why he chose to believe that I was lying.”
“Who would confess freely to such a thing if it were the truth?” he said. “Why do you think you might have been unfaithful to me?”
He could hear the raggedness of the deep breath she took. “When I still thought Ceris was in custody,” she said, “before I learned that she had been set free, I told Ger—the earl that I would do anything to persuade him to release her. No, don’t say anything yet,” she said hastily as he drew breath to speak. “You understand what I am saying, don’t you? I touched him and put myself against him. I was offering my body.”
“But he did not accept the offer?” he asked her.
“No,” she said.
“Then no harm was done.” He set a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.
“But I would have done it,” she said. “I would have given myself to him as many times as he chose to take me. I made the offer. It was he who rejected it, not me.”
“You did it to save a friend,” he said, touching her shoulder again. This time she let his hand rest there. “We all know the Bible quotation ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ Or something like that—I am not sure I have it word perfect. You were prepared to give something of perhaps even greater value than your life, Marged. I can only honor you for it.”
Was it such a sacrifice to give herself to Geraint Penderyn that she had suffered this anguish? He could feel the anguish—and the guilt—being passed on to him.
He turned her then and even in the darkness he could see her eyes huge with tears. He drew her against him and kissed her. “Let’s go inside,” he said.
But she was still not relaxed. She drew back her head and gazed at him. “That is not all,” she said. “I have to tell you the rest.”
