Page 68 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Evans and I promised to stop over to St. Woolos and do some repairs for the vicar.” No reason to jump to her tune like a trained spaniel. He had to cling to some shred of pride. “And we have that project we’ve been working on.”
She smiled. “The reason for all the blasts in the back pasture?” She nipped at his jaw, breath tickling his ear, and the pleasant arousal he’d awakened with turned to a hard ache.
“I feel like there’s something I’m forgetting. One more thing I need to attend to this morning.” He slid a hand down her sleek, long back and cupped the soft curve of her derrière. The muscle flexed as she drew up her knee, settling her hips against his groin. His arousal slid along her core, slick and hot and inviting, but she paused to touch his lips with her fingers.
“Remember this, Pen,” she said softly. “Every moment with you has been a gift to me. This was real.”
Was.Notis.She kissed him, and he kissed her back, deeply, hungrily, despairing. He hauled her against him until there was no air between their bodies. What did she mean byreal? She’d lied about her name. She’d shown him his family’s house and told him their history but she’d told him nothing of himself. She’d saved his life after not just one beating but two, and she’d wrecked him. He was changed. As Pen of St. Sefin’s he’d become a different man than the insolent, wounded, occasionally vile Viscount Penrydd, and he didn’t want to go back to that empty life.
Yet he had to. He feared that when the time came, she would let him go. And without her, what joy would life hold?
He kissed her anyway, swallowing a groan as she lifted her hips and then slipped her body down upon his. Being inside her like this was a bliss for which he’d pay any price. He was hers, body and soul. With that strong, elegant hand and those fingers callused from harping, Gwenllian ap Ewyas had smashed through his every layer of defense, all the walls and guards he’d spent years carefully erecting. She broke through his every barrier as if it were wet paper and clenched his heart in her fist, raw and beating.
And he, useless clodpole that he was, lacking a single shred of self-preservation, didn’t have the will to take it back.
Pen needed answers.It was time.
Gwen stood in St. Sefin’s herb gardens under a spring-blue sky, her mind only partially on the task of instruction. “And this is yarrow,” she said to Mathry, plucking a long stem. “See the feathery leaves and the way the flowers cluster in the center of the petals. Attracts ladybirds and useful insects, and the starlings like it for their nests. Some call it thousand-seal or bloodwort, because it stops bleeding. The leaves have a peppery taste.” She peeled one from a plant and popped it in her mouth.
“No, not you!” Dovey exclaimed as Mathry went to do the same. “It’s given to bring on menses, among other things. We’re working too hard to keep the littlepwtin there.”
Mathry’s eyes widened. “Coc y garth!”she swore. “There’s so much I can do wrong! How’ll I ever learn?”
“Practice, and listening,” Gwen said. “We harvest the whole stem, like this, and will dry it upside down in the stillroom. You can soak the leaves and wrap them on wounds for healing, or make a tea that will settle the stomach. It helps stop spasms and aids sleep. I use it often when Tomos gets upset or when Mother Morris is tamping.”
“Put it in remedies for a putrid throat or rheumatism,” Dovey added.
“And I’ll distill some flowers into an oil,” Gwen said. “I like it for soap, and a drop or two for sore muscles or bruising. We went through quite a lot of it with Pen.”
“Mr. Pen,” Mathry said with a coy smile, “is sweet on you. What are you going to do about it, Gwen?”
Gwen hid her heated face among the yarrow blooms. What, indeed?Sweetwas too light a word for what blazed between them, scorching her senses pure of everything but him. No doubt he’d feel something equally blazing when she finally told him the truth. She knew no way to sweeten the revelation that she’d liedto him, had been lying for weeks. Even while she allowed herself the pleasure of his company, the mind-blotting bliss of his bed.
“We have to tell him,” she said to Dovey.
Dovey froze, fingers clasped about a clutch of yarrow stems. “But nothing has changed. They say the violence is only getting worse, more rough men every day.”
“We can’t keep him here any longer,” Gwen said. “It’s not right.”
Mathry frowned. “What do you mean, keep him here? Does Mr. Pen have somewhere else to go?”
Gwen drew a deep breath. “Pen is?—”
“Indebted to us,” Dovey said quickly. “Does he know that, though?”
Gwen sat back on her heels. She wouldn’t forgive herself if Dovey or any of them came to harm because of her. But she couldn’t continue with the charade.
“I’ll—”
“Gwenbach!” Widow Jones’s voice floated across the garden. “Saesonat the door. The solicitor again, and he’s come with reinforcements.”
“St. Aled’s eyeballs,” Gwen muttered, locking eyes with Dovey.
“We don’t have the money,” Dovey whispered, voicing her fear.
“Where’s Mr. Pen to?” Mathry looked about.
“Over at St. Woolos with Evans and the boys. They’re seeing what slates Mr. Stanley needs for the roof.”
