the fantasy that Tegfan belonged to him. It had never mattered that he drew only a salary from it and not all the profits. Money had never meant a great deal to him provided he had enough for his needs.
But Wyvern was back and it seemed that he was going to stay. And he had become tougher lately and had fallen more in line with what was expected of him in this part of the British Isles. It was he who was conferring with Sir Hector Webb and the other landowners on what must be done about the threat the Rebecca Riots was posing. It was he who was talking with the special constables, planning strategy with them.
Harley had hoped at the start that Wyvern would return to England soon. He still hoped it though it was seeming less likely than it had. And he hoped for a way of reasserting his own importance. If only somehow he could be the one to trap the mob, particularly their Rebecca! His mind returned sometimes to that conversation he had had with Sir Hector, when the baronet had suggested that he find an informant.
Harley spent the Friday afternoon with Ceris. It was a beautiful day, and warm. They took a picnic up into the hills behind Tegfan—inside the park so that they could be alone together. But he could not think seriously of informants or riots or even his own frustrations as a steward on such an afternoon and in such company. He put it all out of his mind. He would think about it some other time.
“Now tell me,” he said, lying back on the grass after they had finished eating, and setting one arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun while he reached for her hand with the other. She was seated on the grass beside him, her knees drawn up, her dress pulled decently down so that he was given not even a glimpse of her ankles. “Did you cook all those cakes and biscuits yourself? Or was it your mother?” He smiled, though he did not remove his arm to look at her.
“I baked them all myself,” she said primly. “Mam was busy making the cheese. Did you think I was incapable?”
“Not for a moment,” he said. He had tried very hard not to fall in love with her. When he had started to think about leaving his present employment, he had started to think too about England and a more suitable bride. His parents would not appreciate a Welsh peasant for a daughter-in-law. His grandfather was a baron. “Come down here to me.”
She had turned her head to look down at him when he withdrew his arm to look. He tugged on her hand and then reached up his other arm to her waist. She came down rather awkwardly, half across him. But she kissed him as sweetly as ever, her lips pouted softly and closed. He felt the familiar rush of heat and tightening in the groin. He set his arms about her and turned her until she was lying on the grass and he was bent over her.
“I will swear on a stack of Welsh Bibles,” he said, “that I consider you the best cook in Wales. Will you marry me?”
He heard his own question with some surprise. But he did not want to retract it.
He watched her eyes grow huge and rather sad and bright with tears. And he felt a stabbing of pain because she was going to reject him. It was the blacksmith, he thought. He did not know what had happened there, but it was the blacksmith.
“I should like that, Matthew,” she said softly.
He gazed down at her. He had not realized quite how lonely his life had been. He pictured her, neat and pretty, in his cottage, waiting for him at the end of each working day, the house filled with the smells of cooking. And seated beside his hearth during the evenings, busy at her loom or with her needle. And in his bed, waiting to give him the comforts of her body. Kissing him farewell in the mornings. How had he ever thought that the sort of female companionship he got at brothels on occasion was all he needed or wanted?
He kissed her and prodded at her lips with his tongue. They trembled and parted to allow him access to the soft flesh behind, though she kept her teeth together. He fondled her breasts through