It was Geraint, she thought, her eyes closed against her hands, who had been her lover. It was his body that had loved her own, penetrated her own. It was Geraint. Her mind could not yet quite grasp the reality.
“Marry me, Marged,” he said.
“No!”
“Why not?” he asked her.
“You deceived me.”
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
She hated him anew for not trying to justify himself, for simply admitting his guilt. He gave her nothing to fight against.
“Marry me,” he said.
“No.”
“Marged,” he asked, “why did you tell me yesterday that Rebecca had promised not to abandon you?”
She froze. Oh God, oh dear God, yes, she had said that to him. Her wretched tongue!
And then he touched her for the first time. One of his hands slid around her and spread itself lightly over her abdomen.
“Do we have a child growing here, cariad?” he asked her softly.
She felt that somersaulting and cartwheeling again.
“I think so.” She wished she found it easy to lie.
“You must marry me, then,” he said.
“No.” She considered trying to push his hand away, but she did not think he would remove it and she did not want to wrestle with him.
“Marged,” he said, “I know what it is like for a woman shunned by her family and her community and living alone up here. And I know what it is like to be the child of such a woman. To love her to distraction because there is no one but her to love and to sense her unhappiness and her loneliness without fully understanding them or being able to do anything about them. Is that what you want for yourself? And our child?”
She heard herself moan before she clamped her teeth together.
“I will not allow it,” he said.
He ought not to have said that. She bristled.
“I love you,” he said. “Marged, I love you. I always have. I always will.”
And he ought not to have said that either. She was not made of stone.
“Marged.” His hand began stroking over her abdomen. “Remember how this child got here. On whichever occasion it happened, it was good. It has always been good. It was always done with love, from the first time to the last. Love on both sides. Our child was begotten and conceived in the right way and for the right reason. It is a child of our love.”
Again the moan. This time she did not cut it short.
“Marry me,” he said.
He knew she was close to saying yes. But she did not say it. And suddenly he did not want her to say it. Not like this. Not with her face hidden on her arms. Hidden from him. From the truth.
His hand rested, splayed, against her. Against the place where their child grew. Their child—his and Marged’s. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against her neck.
“Marged,” he said softly, “forgive me. Forgive me.”
She turned then, after shrugging her shoulders sharply and batting away his hand. Her face was angry.
