“Aled!” she cried suddenly in a strange, lost, surprised voice, and he felt her body jerk out of control beneath him. He surged into her over and over again, excited by her climax, until his seed came spilling deep and he released all his energy, all his love into his woman.
His first woman.
His only woman. Ever.
It took him a long while after he was lying on his back again and Ceris was curled up against his good side, his arm beneath her head, to bring the pain under control. But it was a physical thing and would pass off. He focused his mind on what had just happened and on the feel of her, relaxed after love. With his seed in her.
“Aled,” she said, “can I bring you anything? I can tell by your breathing that you are in pain.”
“Stay where you are,” he said. “You are the only medicine I need, cariad.”
“Aled,” she said after a short silence, “I meant it. I will not wake up tomorrow to be horrified at what I have done. I meant it. And I loved it—far more than I ever expected.”
He surprised himself by chuckling. “We were not bad for a pair of novices, were we?” he said.
“Have you never—” she began.
“No, never,” he said. “It was always you or no one, cariad. A pair of virgins we were. Past tense, I am glad to say.”
“Aled.” She kissed his shoulder. “I love you.”
“Yes, cariad,” he said softly. “Sleep now, is it? Sleep now after the exertions of love.”
“Yes, Aled,” she said.
Geraint’s valet woke him with the announcement that Sir Hector Webb had called and was waiting for him in the visitors’ salon downstairs. Geraint turned his head with a frown to look at the clock. It was still early, but it was long past his usual time of rising. He had lain down when he returned home sometime before dawn, not expecting to sleep. Apparently he had.
Sir Hector was pacing the floor of the salon and made no attempt to hide his impatience or his contempt for a nobleman who slept the morning away. There were three other men standing silently side by side inside the door. Two of them—Geraint recognized them as special constables who had been billeted at Pantnewydd—stood motionless. The other was fidgety and ill at ease. Geraint recognized him too.
“Precious time has been wasted this morning, Wyvern,” Sir Hector said, frowning in irritation. “This man”—he indicated the one who was not a constable—“called here earlier this morning with important information for you. Harley was forced to tell him that you were abed and had left word that you were not to be disturbed. Of all the nonsense!”
Geraint raised his eyebrows. Had he left any such word?
“There were two gates pulled down last night,” Sir Hector said. “One not three miles from here. I suppose you have not even heard?”
“One tends not to,” Geraint said coldly, “when one is asleep, Hector.”
“This man had to come all the way to Pantnewydd with his information,” Sir Hector said.
Geraint fixed his eyes on the gatekeeper who had had the company of two constables in his tollhouse the night before. “Well?” he said with haughty impatience. “Out with it, man. What can you tell us beyond the fact that Rebecca and her so-called children wrecked your gate? Is it too much to hope that you recognized someone?”
“That is it exactly, my lord,” the man said, bobbing his head nervously. “I did too.”
The air Geraint breathed into his nostrils suddenly felt icy. “Well?” He raised his eyebrows, all impatience.
“It was a woman, my lord,” the man said. “After all those ruffians had left, I came back down to the road to see what the damages were. And she was down there. She was not disguised like the ones who ran away. And this one was a real woman.”
Ceris Williams. “And you had a good look at her?” Geraint asked.
“Oh, yes, my lord,” the gatekeeper said. “The moon came out at that very moment, just before one of the riders came galloping down and carried her off. I used to live in Glynderi, you see, and I knew her. She was Ninian Williams’s daughter. Ceris Williams.”
“I have brought two men with me,” Sir Hector said, “just in case the four you have here are about some other business, Wyvern. I would have sent them to arrest her, but it seemed a courtesy to you to come here first.”
“Yes, indeed,” Geraint said, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked at the two constables. “Off you go, then. Get someone to give you directions. Bring her in. Without force, if you please.”
“If she offers any resistance—” Sir Hector began.
“Without force,” Geraint said, not forgetting that his uncle was a magistrate while he was not. But this was his land. And what the devil had Ceris Williams been doing down on that road? She was not a follower of Rebecca. Had she come on the same errand as Idris? But how had she heard what the child had heard? And who exactly were the pursuers the boy had warned of? What would Ceris say under interrogation? Aled had rescued her. Would she have recognized him? And would she betray him if she had? Marged had said the two of them had almost married. Would Ceris betray anyone else? And if she would not speak, how was he to save her from imprisonment?
The thoughts teemed around in his brain while he strolled to the window and stood looking out, his hands still behind his back, his whole stance discouraging conversation.
“We have them this time,” Sir Hector said anyway. “All it takes is one captive. And a woman at that. She will talk if she knows what is good for her.”
“Yes,” Geraint said. “It would seem that we have the break we have been looking for.” Ceris Williams was the sweet little girl who had used to hide behind her mother’s skirt and smile at him. She was the equally sweet little lady who had brought him food at Mrs. Howell’s birthday party and had stayed to talk with him, though he had recognized the shyness that made it very difficult for her to do so. Ceris Williams had a tender heart. He did not believe she would hold up well under interrogation.
She was at home milking the cows for her mother. She was trying not to think of the tumult of events that had happened the day before. She was trying, for the moment at least, to focus all her thoughts on last night’s final event. It was not difficult. There were the physical aftereffects—the tenderness in her breasts, the slight soreness inside between her legs, where he had loved her and given her his seed. And there were the memories of what he had felt like. And the certainty that there had been a rightness about it all.
She wanted to dream. She wanted the milking to last as long as possible so that she could be alone with her thoughts. She knew there were other thoughts awaiting their turn, far less comfortable thoughts. But not yet.
It was at her milking that they found her. One of them pointed a gun at her. The other pulled her arms roughly behind her and bound them so tightly that she soon lost feeling in her hands. The one with a gun turned to point it at Dada when he came running from the field and then at Mam when she came out of the house. Ceris Williams was under arrest for taking part in a Rebecca Riot, the one who had bound her said. They were taking her to Tegfan.
They marched her quickly along, one holding to each of her arms. Deliberately quickly, she thought, so that she would trip and they could haul her up again. If only she could have held up her skirt at the front, it would not have happened at all. But she went down on one knee once and all the way down another time. She kept her head down, though she knew that they passed a few people. She prayed fervently and constantly to the God in whom she believed passionately. She prayed that she would have the strength not to betray Aled. Or Marged or Waldo Parry or any of the others she knew.