“Yes, but where in Britain? It’s a big place, you know.”
“I do know. I’m from there.”
She tensed. Silence fell, and he didn’t know how to make it stop. Why was she asking? He wasn’t prepared. He’d not told anyone his past, and not even Smith knew it in its entirety. He didn’t know how to phrase it right, how to tell her he was from a tiny town in the north of Wales, had spent his youth shovelling coal onto cargo ships, and had managed through cunning and some measure of deceit to find his way to America and a more lucrative pursuit. How could he tell her all this, and not tell her he’d lied? Over and repeatedly, since the moment they met.
He knew her, and he knew how she would react. She wouldn’t react…well.
Moments passed. Endless moments, where he had no notion of what to say.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she finally said.
Remaining silent, he brushed his lips against her temple and ignored the voice telling him she should already know of his purpose in Ironwood.
“But I would be much obliged if you did.”
He winced. Her words got more Western-fied when she was annoyed. “I know.”
“You could possibly tell me a mite or two more about yourself. I know next to nothing.”
Worry he might push her too far made his own voice sharp. “I know.”
The silence that followed weighed heavy. In his arms, she no longer lay relaxed, her body almost buzzing with her tension.
Finally, she exploded. “Dammit, Llewellyn! What’s so hard about telling me?” Shoving herself up, she flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Were you a drunken lay-about? Did you get locked in jail a spell? Was your pappy a mean, cheating cur? What?”
“No! None of those things.” Agitation had the Welsh bleeding into his words, and he rose to face her. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be hard. I should tell you. I don’t know—I can’t—I just can’t, all right?”
“No, it’s not all right.” Crossing her arms, she pressed them into her stomach. “What is this to you?”
Cautiously, he regarded her. “What do you mean?”
“This.” She waved her hand over the bed. “Us. What is this?”
“I don’t know.” Running his hand through his hair, he exhaled. “Do we have to define it?”
“No, we don’thaveto define it. I like spending time with you. I love sleeping with you, but you’re so closed-mouthed. I don’t know why you’re here, why you’re with me. I don’t know why you’re pretending to be something you’re not. I don’t understand any of it. Llewellyn.” Taking his hand in hers, she took a breath. “I want toknowyou, Rupert.”
Torn, he stared at her. Her eyes implored him to tell her all. Christ, he wanted to know her, too, but he couldn’t tell her why he was in Ironwood. Not yet. Not until he had each phrase perfect. But as for the rest... “I’m from Bagillt.”
Scowling, she made to pull away. “If you’re going to make things up—”
Hauling her back, he captured her hands. “No, I’m really from there. It’s a small town in North Wales.”
“North Wales?”
“Yes.” He drew a map on her palm. “This is England. Scotland. Wales is here.”
Staring down at the imaginary map, she said, “So that’s the accent I can hear every now and then?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you leave?”
Unbidden, memories of Bagillt rose, leaving behind a sour taste. “Why wouldn’t I? It was a small town populated by smaller people.”
Cocking her head, she regarded him. Usually, he had some idea what was going on behind those amber eyes. Now, he had no clue. “Ironwood is a long way from Wales.”
“It is.” He exhaled. He’d no desire to relive those days, and yet she seemed determined that he did. “I’m the bastard son of a bigger bastard, one who never stopped to see if he’d impregnated my mother after having his fun. I grew up in a town where everyone worked in the colliery, and as soon as I was old enough to support myself, I left. I made my way to Cardiff and shovelled coal onto cargo ships until I was convinced the dust coating my skin would never wash away. So, I scraped enough money to head to London, then New York, then San Francisco.”
