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