She had felt very alone with him out on the hills. She felt even more alone with him when he had followed her into the kitchen and set her harp down in its usual place—even though the other two women were so close in the next room that they might hear a whisper.
He straightened up and turned to look at her, the planes of his face looking even more chiseled and even harsher than usual in the dying embers of the fire. They were alone, and he was no longer burdened with the harp. And they were standing no more than three feet apart.
She was very aware of the cupboard bed just behind her.
She turned sharply and led the way back out into the passageway. She could hear a few of the cows moving restlessly in the straw.
He turned in the doorway to look at her. It was quite dark there, but they had been walking in the dark for longer than half an hour. Their eyes were accustomed to it.
Eurwyn had used to kiss her when they were in bed together. Never at any other time except a few times when he was courting her. His lips had always used to be soft and warm against hers. And then he would turn her onto her back and draw up her nightgown. She would settle him in the cradle of her thighs and feel his weight pressing down on her. And then he would come inside and they would be man and wife together for a few silent minutes. There was never any great excitement, but just that—the being together, the being one as a man was supposed to be one with his wife. And then afterward his kiss again and his arm beneath her head and his apology. Always his apology for bothering her when she must be tired.
Her body had been so empty without his. Her heart had been empty without him. Now, coming home together after the rare treat of a party with their friends and neighbors, they would have gone to bed together and have had the closeness of each other for the rest of the night.
The man who was standing in the doorway reached out and took her hands in his, as he had done on a previous occasion. But instead of looking down at the calluses this time, he raised them one at a time to his mouth and set his lips against her palms. She felt the warmth of his breath. He set her hands together, palm to palm, and held them there as if to keep his kisses warm. He looked into her eyes, though she could not see for sure that he did so. What little light there was, was behind him.
“Good night, Marged,” he said so softly that it was a mere whisper of sound.
And then he was gone while her palms were still pressed together and tears would have blurred her vision if there had been anything to see.
Good night, Marged.
They were the only words either of them had spoken since leaving Ianto Richards’s house, she realized. The house behind her felt empty and she knew that the bed would be cold. She yearned and yearned for a man’s touch, for a man’s loving. But they were all mixed up together, her longing for a long-dead husband and her yearning for the man who had betrayed her.
Good night. Geraint. The tears spilled over, hot onto her cheeks. Damn you. Oh, damn you.
He was cautiously hopeful. He could not pretend that he had been welcomed with open arms at Mrs. Howell’s party the evening before, but neither had he been openly rejected. Everyone had been polite. A few had made the effort to talk with him. Perhaps with some persistence and some patience on his part, eventually he would make them see that he was not the eternal enemy. Once that happened, there could be dialogue. He could find out where the real problems lay and try to find solutions.
Even Marged had seemed less hostile. He had spent a largely sleepless night thinking of Marged, wondering what she would have done if he had lowered his head and kissed her lips, as he had wanted to do. And wondering where the one kiss would have led if she had been receptive to him. Part of him wished he had put it to the test. His body was on fire for her. Part of him was glad that he had not tempted fate, that he had an almost tender memory of the end of the evening.
Of course, he must not be overoptimistic. He had not failed to notice that Aled had disappeared during the singing and had not returned. Aled had avoided him. Perhaps because he had not wanted to be trapped into having either to show open friendship or to openly snub his friend.
Were they friends? Geraint was not sure. He doubted Aled was sure either. And he guessed that neither of them really wanted to find out at the moment.
But Geraint felt hopeful. For a few days there had been no “accidents.” And tomorrow he had an appointment with the man who had leased the toll roads and gates from the trust of which he, Geraint, was part owner. He was going to see if something could be done about lessening the burden on the farmers. It seemed they had two particular grievances. They paid tolls on the vast quantities of lime they had to haul for fertilizing their fields, and they paid frequent tolls because there were several different trusts in Carmarthenshire and they all had their gates and their charges.
Surely something could be arranged. Surely landowners like himself would consent to paying tolls on the roads too—it seemed only fair. And perhaps too they could lower the cost of the lease so that the man leasing from them would not be out of pocket for easing the burden on the poor.
It was going to mean several meetings with several people, and some of them—like his aunt and uncle—would doubtless be resistant at first. But he could get them to see sense. He had never lacked for persuasive powers.
He went to bed that night quite early and slept soundly after his sleeplessness of the night before. He woke up later, feeling angry, wondering what sort of drunken brawl was going on in the street outside until he remembered that he was at Tegfan, in the country. But what the devil was going on outside? He could not have been sleeping for longer than a few hours. It must be the very dead of night. And yet he could hear yelling voices and the crunch of boots on the gravel of the terrace. He could hear at least one horse whinnying.
He looked down from his window a few moments later on a scene of chaos. There was plenty of moonlight tonight. He could see the stable block over to his right. A couple of grooms were standing outside it, one hopping about as he tried to pull on a boot, the other seeming to have a hard time getting his arms inside the sleeves of a shirt. Other grooms were dashing after disappearing horses, in various states of undress.
It did not take a genius to understand what had happened. By some strange chance—doubtless an accident—the stable doors had been left open as well as all the doors into the horses’ stalls, and the horses had bolted. No one could be blamed. Accidents happened, after all.
Geraint’s jaw hardened and he felt fury ball inside him. And disappointment. And frustration. It would take his men perhaps the rest of the night to round up the frightened animals—they had clearly not wandered out of those unlatched doors. They had been driven out.
He turned and strode toward his dressing room.
They were fortunate that at least they were not hampered by the darkness. It took them less than an hour to round up all but two of the horses. One of those was Geraint’s own. It and the other missing one were nowhere to be found.
“Leave it,” Geraint said wearily to his head groom sometime later when the two of them were at the northern end of the park, uphill from the house, and could see down and across a whole expanse of land. Nothing was moving except for a few servants, halfheartedly searching for the missing animals. “Tell the men to go back to bed. We will find them in the morning, or more likely they will return on their own when they discover they are ready for their morning feed.”