Her voice choked with genuine emotion. "I was chambermaid to Lady Tregar, and she herself told me of her husband's infidelities, great tears in her beautiful eyes. He broke her heart with his adultery. Then, when his wickedness was discovered, he frightened her so badly that she ran away to her death." Her tone turned venomous. "You are so smug, so sure of your virtue, that you think you can consort with Satan and not be corrupted. For shame, Clare Morgan, for shame! As Thomas Morgan's daughter, you've always thought yourself better than others. Yet I tell you now that if you stay in the devil's house, you will soon be carrying his brat!"
Anger stirred in Clare, giving her strength. "Who are you more interested in condemning—me or Lord Aberdare?" she said sharply. "I know that you loved your mistress, and that you still grieve for her. Yet no one but the earl himself knows what was between him and his wife, and it is wrong for us to sit in judgment. Yes, his lordship has a black reputation, but from what I have seen of him, he is less wicked than he is painted. Does anyone here have personal knowledge of vicious behavior on the part of the earl? If so, I have never heard of it. Has he ever seduced one of the village girls? No one in Penreith has ever named him father of her child." She paused, her gaze running over the congregation. "I swear before God that I will not be the first."
The silence was broken when Gwenda Elias snapped, "So now you are defending him! To me, that's clear proof that you are succumbing to his lures. Very well, go to that devil, but don't take any of our children with you, and don't ask our forgiveness when you have ruined yourself!"
A man muttered, "She has admitted to indecent behavior. Can't help but wonder what she isn't admitting."
Clare's fingers whitened as her fingers tightened on the pew back. Perhaps submissiveness and confession would be more Christian, but part of her nature that she had never recognized demanded that she fight back. Looking at the man who spoke, she said, "Mr. Clun, I sat with your mother every night for a week when she was dying. Did you think I was a liar then?"
She found another accusing face. "Mrs. Beynon, when I helped you clean your cottage after it flooded and sewed new curtains for your windows, did you think I was immoral?" Her icy glance moved on. "Mr. Lewis, when your wife was ill and you were out of work, I collected clothing and food for you and your children. Did you think me corrupt then?"
All three of the people she singled out looked away, unable to meet her glance.
In the silence, Owen Morris rose to his feet. As a deacon and class leader, he was one of the most respected men in the society. "Justice belongs to the Lord, Mrs. Elias. It is not for us to forgive or condemn." His grave gaze went to Clare. "There is not another member of our chapel who has served others more than Clare Morgan. When the earl demanded that she work for him in return for his assistance to the village, she voluntarily took leave from the school so that no hint of scandal would touch the children. Her reputation has always been above reproach. If she swears her innocence, should we not believe her?"
A murmur of agreement spread through the room, but it was far from unanimous. Mrs. Elias snapped, "Say what you will, I refuse to worship under the same roof as a female who consorts with Lord Aberdare." She turned and marched toward the door. After a moment, others, both male and female, got to their feet and started to follow.
For a moment Clare froze, horrified at the knowledge that the congregation was on the verge of shattering, and she was the cause. If something wasn't done immediately, the chapel members would divide into pro-Clare and anti-Clare factions. The result would be hatred, not the love that was the purpose of their fellowship. She cried, "Wait!"
The exodus paused as people turned to her. Voice shaking, she continued, "I admit that my actions are not above reproach. Rather than split the congregation of Zion Chapel, which my father loved so much, it is better if I alone withdraw." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I promise that I will not return until I am no longer under a shadow."
Owen started to protest, then quieted when she shook her head. Struggling to keep her chin high, she walked toward the door. One unidentified voice said admiringly, "As fine an example of Christian generosity as I could ever hope to see."
Someone else hissed, "She's wise to leave before she's thrown out. For all her education and superior ways, she's no better than she should be."
Clare had to pass two members of her class meeting. Edith Wickes scowled, not quite condemning but certainly disapproving. Jamie Harkin, the former soldier, reached out to touch her hand and give an encouraging smile. His sympathy almost triggered the tears that threatened to spill out.
She nodded to him, then opened the door and walked into the cool spring morning.
The children were playing games while most of the mothers hovered near the windows, listening to what was happening inside while keeping the curious unmarried girls at a safe distance. Marged came over and gave Clare a hug. "Oh, Clare, love," she whispered, "you do be careful. I've teased you about the earl, but this is not a laughing matter."
"It certainly isn't," Clare agreed. She tried to smile. "Don't worry, Marged. I promised I won't let him ruin me."
Unable to face anyone else, she collected her pony cart and drove away. It was horrible knowing that, within a day, everyone in Penreith would be talking about her, and that many of her fellows would not give her the benefit of the doubt.
Far worse was knowing that the doubters were right; she had behaved wantonly, she was susceptible to Nicholas's diabolical temptations. And in spite of her brave vow that she would preserve her virtue, she knew, with bleak certainty, that if she didn't leave Aberdare soon, there was a dreadful likelihood she would cooperate in her own ruination.
* * *
Knowing that Clare had gone to chapel, Nicholas had ridden out early to visit the shepherd who grazed flocks in the highest hills of Aberdare, the pastures that Tam the Telyn had once used.
He was riding back when he saw movement on the track that led to the ruins of the medieval castle that was the original Aberdare. Shading his eyes, he squinted across the valley. To his surprise, he saw that Clare's pony cart was moving slowly up the steep hill.
He watched until the cart reached the point where the track became too steep for the cart. Clare climbed out and tethered the pony, then continued the climb by foot.
The sun had come out, so she was probably going to the castle to enjoy the view, which was the best in the valley. Deciding to join her, he cantered across the valley and up the track. Unlike her pony, his stallion was capable of climbing all the way to the castle. Leaving his mount in a corner where it would be sheltered from the wind, he went in search of Clare.
He found her on the highest parapet, the wind whipping her gown and shawl and adding vivid color to her cheeks. Apparently unaware of his approach, she was gazing down at the valley. From this high vantage point, Penreith was a collection of toy-sized buildings and the mine only a wisp of smoke. In sheltered dells that faced south, daffodils were opening their golden heads.
Speaking quietly so not to startle her, he said, "A splendid prospect, isn't it? This was my favorite place when I was a child. The height and stone walls give the illusion of safety."
"But safety is only an illusion." She turned to face him, her face stark. "Let me go, Nicholas. You've had your amusement. Now I want to go home."
Sudden fear stabbed through him. "You're asking to be released from our bargain?"
"Now that you're going to London, you don't need my company." Wearily she brushed at tendrils of hair that had escaped her bonnet. "You've seen for yourself what needs to be done to help the village, so you don't need me for that, either."
"No!" he said explosively. "I will do nothing for Penreith unless you fulfill your part of the bargain."
"Why not?" she said, bewildered. "You care about people—it's obvious from the way you behaved at the mine, by what you did for Huw. Surely by this time you must want to help the villagers for their own sakes, not because of our foolish wager."
/> "You overestimate my altruism," he snapped. "The day you move back to Penreith, I will leave Aberdare. The pit and the village can go to hell for all I care."
Her eyes widened with shock. "How can you be so selfish when you can help so easily?"
"It is my nature, my little innocent," he said sarcastically. "I was taught well and truly by my nearest and dearest. Selfishness has served me far better than trust or generosity ever did, and I will not abandon it now. If you want me to play savior, you will damned well have to pay the price."
"And the price is my life!" she cried, tears shimmering in her eyes. "This morning I was publically condemned in the chapel by people whose respect I thought I had earned. Even the most loyal of my friends are worried about what I am doing. It has taken only four days to undermine twenty-six years of virtuous living. Because of your whim, I am losing my friends, my work, everything that has given meaning to my life."
It hurt to the heart to see her anguish, but to yield would be to lose her. "You knew the price would be high at the beginning," he said coldly, "and you said then 'so be it.' It's easy to be brave when nothing is asked of you, but now that you have run into the first difficulty, you are showing what you are made of. And you're a coward, Clare Morgan."
She stiffened, the tears drying in her eyes. "You dare speak of cowardice, a man who responded to crisis by running away from home for four years?"
"The issue is not my failings but yours," he retorted. "If you want to leave, go. Preserve your precious virtue if that is what is most important to you. But I'm not fool enough to put my time and money into your projects for no more return than a superior smile. If you leave before the three months are up, the slate quarry will stay closed, I will make no attempt to improve conditions at the mine, and Aberdare will sit empty, without servants, until I can find a way to sell it."
Her eyes narrowed with fury. "Do you think that holding me prisoner will make me more willing to share your bed?"
Anger had driven her to accept his challenge in the first place, and if he was not careful, anger would drive her away. Softening his voice, he said, "I am not your jailer, Clare. The decision is yours alone. I know that it must hurt terribly to be condemned by your fellows. Yet from what I know of Methodist beliefs, what truly matters is your conscience before God. Can you truly say that you are ashamed of what has passed between us?"
She gave a brittle laugh. "So must the serpent have spoken to Eve."
"Very likely," he agreed, "for the knowledge that the serpent offered was carnal. Adam and Eve ate the apple, became aware of their nakedness—their sexuality—and were expelled from Eden. Personally, I've always thought that Eden must have been a boring place—perfection always is. With no capacity to do evil, there is also no chance to do good. The world we live in is a harder place than Eden, but far more interesting, and passion is one of the great compensations."
"Obviously as a boy you learned enough religion to know how to subvert it," she said sharply, "but you missed the lesson on mercy. The world must be full of beautiful, experienced women who would welcome your attentions. Why do you insist on keeping me with you against my will?"
"Because, though there are women more beautiful, it is you that I want." He stepped closer and put his hands on her upper arms. "Can you honestly say that you dislike my attentions?"
She stiffened. "Whether I like them is not the point."
"Isn't it?" When he kissed her, her chilled lips swiftly warmed under his. He murmured, "Is this against your will?"
She made a raw, ardent sound deep in her throat. "No, damn you, it isn't! That's why I fear you."
There was desperation in her response, and he sensed that she found his embrace as much consolation as menace. If he could bind her to him now, she would be his forever.
Without breaking the embrace, he drew her a few steps along the parapet into the shelter of a wall. As the wind swirled her skirts around his ankles, he untied her appalling bonnet. A small tug and it dropped away, freeing the rich darkness of her coiled hair. He slipped his hand under her shawl and cupped her breast, kneading the gentle swell as his thumb teased her nipple to hardness. She gasped, then arched against him.
Her slightest response inflamed him easily, so easily. His hips moved against hers, trapping her between himself and the rough stone wall. She shifted restively, not trying to escape, more as if she instinctively sought how best to fit against him.
As he delved the liquid depths of her mouth, he slid his hand around her back and located the hooks that secured the top of her high-necked gown. The first unfastened easily, and the second. He paused to stroke her satiny skin, then eased her gown and shift down to expose the pale expanse of her shoulders.
Her scent was lavender and thyme, as modest as Clare herself but with a sweet, wild tang. He began to lay butterfly kisses down the arc of her throat and along the angle of her collarbone. Feverishly she rolled her pelvis against him.
He responded with a groan, his whole body becoming rigid. Through the layers of cloth that separated them, she felt a tremor in the hard ridge that pressed against her belly.
"Ah, Clare, you bewitch me," he said hoarsely.
She wanted witchery so that she need not think of the devastating choice she must make. Yet by staying in his arms, perhaps she had already chosen.
Lost in swirling sensation, she was slow to understand that the cold air on her left leg was caused by his inching her skirt and petticoat above her knee. His warm hand glided over her garter and he began caressing her inner thigh, tracing sensual patterns on the bare skin. Her breathing fractured and a dangerous craving radiated through her.
What saved her was not shame for her wickedness, but realization that secret parts of her body were becoming hotly moist. Not understanding why but obscurely embarrassed, she summoned all her strength and gasped, "No more."
Voice rough with urgency, he said, "If you want an end to doubting, let me continue. I swear you will not regret it."
"You can't guarantee that. It's far more likely that I would never forgive myself." Tears stung her eyes again as she caught his upper arms, holding him away from her. "Why are you so determined to ruin me?"
He expelled his breath with ragged slowness. "Don't cry, Clare. Please don't cry." He loosened his clasp, then turned and slid down to sit against the wall. Catching her hand, he tugged her down onto his lap, enfolding her so that her head was against his shoulder. While she struggled with her emotions, he stroked her tenderly, as if she were a frightened child.
As the fever that had invaded her body began to ebb, she forced herself to face her dilemma. There was still time to leave Nicholas and return to her normal life in the village. There would be some scandal, but it would fade soon. Leaving was the simple, safe, moral solution.
Yet if she chose it, for the rest of her life she would have to bear the guilt of her cowardice. Nicholas had the power to change hundreds of lives for the better, and for her to withdraw would be not only cowardly but selfish.
Sacrificing her reputation and her way of life to help the village was far more painful than she had expected. Yet she could have borne it easily if she disliked what he was compelling her to do; as a suffering martyr, her conscience would have been clear. The bitter irony that caused this maelstrom of guilt and doubt was the fact that Nicholas was giving her the greatest happiness of her life.
He was a rake and an adulterer, a man of avowed selfishness who had no desire to use his wealth and power for anything but gratifying his own desires. Yet he moved her deeply in ways she had never known. And strangely, even though their values were wholly antagonistic, he understood her as no one else ever had.
The gusty spring wind ruffled her skirts and teased at her hair. It was bitingly cold in this shaded corner of the parapets, but Nicholas was an island of warmth and comfort. She sighed, her hand tightening on his solid upper arm. Against all morals and sense, she felt safe with him.
He said softly, "Roses in the cheeks—a c
liché used by every lovestruck swain who ever wrote bad poetry to his sweetheart. Yet nothing better describes the lovely color in your face. Welsh roses blooming on flawless Celtic skin." He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "Don't leave, Clare."
Even if she had made up her mind to return to Penreith, her resolve would have crumbled under the tenderness in his voice. Amazingly, it seemed that Nicholas truly wanted her with him; she was something more than an idle whim.
Though she had been too disabled by passion to appreciate that fact when they were locked in each other's arms, now she recalled his hunger, the way he had trembled at her response.
Yet the fact that she could affect him didn't guarantee her safety; it was more likely that they would simply go up in flames together. Thinking out loud, she said sadly, "If I leave now, I should be able to mend my tattered reputation. To stay is to forfeit the only life I have known. To be ruined."
"I cannot agree that passion always brings ruin. If physical intimacy creates joy and no one is hurt, how can it be wrong?"
"I suspect that men have been saying that to innocent maidens ever since the Fall," she said dryly. "And women who are fool enough to believe it are left to bear their babes in a lane and raise them in the workhouse. Who says that no one is hurt?"
"Making babies casually is wrong, a crime against the child as well as the mother," he agreed. "But pregnancy is not an inevitable result of passion. There are reasonably effective methods of prevention."
"Interesting if true," she said, "but even where there is no risk of pregnancy, casual coupling would be wrong."
He shook his head. "I think that if methods of preventing babies were widely known, ideas of right and wrong would change. Our current sexual morality exists to protect women, children, and society from the dangerous consequences of careless passion. If there were no consequences—if men and women could freely decide whether or not to share their bodies based on desire, not morality—our world would be very different."
"But would it be a better place? Perhaps for men, who could satisfy their lusts, then leave with a light heart and a clear conscience. I don't know if women can be so heedless."