would ever admit that it was better than it had been with Eurwyn. With Eurwyn there had been warmth, affection, marital closeness. With Rebecca there had been . . . Oh, there were not words. Marged lifted her chin and closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.
She was in love with Rebecca—deeply in love. And she could not feel sorry that she had known everything with him. Even if, by some strange quirk of fortune, she was with child. She felt a moment’s stabbing of panic. But he would not leave her in disgrace, he had said. And how wonderful it would be—oh, Duw, how wonderful—to find that after all she could have a child of her own. His child.
She opened her eyes again and smiled. She did not know who he was. She had never even seen his face. And yet she was wishing for his child?
Her steps had brought her in a different direction from the one she had taken a few Sundays before. She was close to where Geraint had used to live with his mother. The hovel was still there, she knew, though it was in very bad repair. She did not often come this way. She usually avoided the memories. And she should have done so today. She did not want to think about Geraint. She wanted to focus her thoughts entirely on Rebecca. She would at least see him soon—tomorrow night again. Her heart beat faster at the thought.
And then she was aware of something at the far side of the old hovel, something that did not belong there—the flutter of dark fabric from behind the far wall, the suggestion of something darker than the thatch on the far side of the low roof. She felt fear for a moment—it was a very bleak and lonely spot. But she had never been one to flee fear. She walked slowly closer, stepping as quietly as she could.
By the time she stepped cautiously past the old house, far enough that she could see what was behind the side wall, she was no more than eight or ten feet away from him. His cloak was thrown back over his shoulders. His arms were spread, elbows out, along the roof and his face was hidden in his hands. He was hatless.
Although his cloak was fluttering in the wind, he was standing quite still and silent. Obviously he had not heard her come.
Her first instinct was to leave—and fast. She felt the familiar welling of hatred and resentment. She had no wish to see him ever again. And the thought struck her that if he had his will, he would destroy her new love as he had destroyed the old. He was Rebecca’s enemy. He had constables at his house sworn to catching Rebecca. He was not himself a magistrate, but she knew he would rejoice in the capture and would press for the stiffest penalty the law would allow.
She had heard that any Rebecca who was caught would be transported for life. If he did make it to Van Diemen’s Land alive, he would never return. Never.
She actually turned to leave. But she looked back over her shoulder. He was so still. What was he doing? He was the same person, she thought unwillingly, as that little boy who had lived here with his mother. That little boy she had loved with a child’s adoration.
She stepped closer to him, close enough to touch him. She lifted one hand, saw it trembling, and closed it on itself. But she opened the hand again and touched it lightly to his shoulder.
“Geraint?” she whispered.
He spun around so quickly that she took an involuntary step back, terrified. Her hand stayed suspended in the air. But then she gazed at him, horrified. His eyes were filled with tears and both they and his cheeks were blotched red. He had been crying!
“I am sorry,” she said, still whispering. Her hand fell to her side. She had some idea of turning and fleeing.
But before she could make her escape, both his arms came out and grabbed her. He hauled her against him and held her there with arms like iron bands. For a few moments she was terrified. She could scarcely breathe, and her nostrils were assaulted by the expensive musk of his cologne. She thought he meant to do her some mischief.
But it did not take her longer than those few moments to realize that he was in deep distress. There had