Chapter Two
A Wager and a Knave

‘WHAT’S IN THE BASKET?’ Rebecca fidgeted with the snowy napkin.

‘There’s a bottle of Biddy’s homemade cordial and some titbits for Mrs Owen and her family. She’s confined to her cottage.’ Catrin giggled. ‘It’s an excuse for us to be out walking instead of sewing your trousseau.’

The formal betrothal had been confirmed after the dinner.

‘Oh, clever Cat,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’ve never suspected such hidden depths. Are we off on a spying mission?’

‘We deliver this. Then continue our walk.’ Catrin shot Rebecca a sly glance. ‘I thought we’d head for the sand dunes ... some fresh air after last night’s rich food.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ Rebecca shuddered, recalling the oily touch of Geraint’s lips as he kissed her hand before leaving. ‘Do you believe in miracles, Cat?’

‘I believe in destiny.’

‘Does Mrs Owen still read the cards?’

‘How much time do you spend listening to servants’ gossip?’

‘Not quite as much as you. I fancy having my cards read but if Mrs Owen is indisposed, I’d better not trouble her.’

‘She’s not indisposed, just resting,’ said Catrin. ‘Her mother’s caring for the little ones.’

‘A village woman, resting?’

‘Her time is near,’ Catrin whispered.

The two walked on. Rebecca longed to satisfy her curiosity but it was unlikely Catrin knew much more than Biddy did. There seemed a chasm between married and single women. Rebecca wondered if what her father said was really true and love could grow between a man and woman, even if it didn’t exist before they married.

‘Does it hurt?’ Rebecca stopped walking.

‘Childbirth? Don’t you know your bible?’

‘I meant … when the man enters you.’ She watched Catrin’s cheeks turn pink.

‘Hush, Becca. How should I know?’

‘Are you looking forward to wedding your clergyman, Catrin?’

‘I am.’

‘Is he good-looking? Like the horseman?’

‘He pleases me.’

‘You can’t wait, can you? What do you say to a swap? You take Geraint and all his riches. I’ll wed nice John Morgan.’ Rebecca watched her friend’s face. ‘There. You’re doing just what I did – imagining those hands creeping over your body. Now you know how I feel.’

‘Rebecca, you’ll be the envy of the peninsula when you become My Lady Geraint. You’ll probably be paying me visits, bringing titbits to help us out.’

‘You still don’t understand, do you?’

‘Come on. We’re nearly there. Afterwards, we’ll have our bit of fun.’

Rebecca doubted they’d get close enough to the young man for her to claim a kiss. With his credentials, he might suspect an ambush and gallop off. At least she could imagine carrying out the wager. Maybe get a better view of him this time. That’s if he turned up.

‘A dark-haired man – a knave not a king,’ said Mrs Owen. ‘That’s what I see.’

The cottage smelled of cabbage. Rebecca, mesmerised by the woman’s pumpkin belly, hardly noticed.

Mrs Owen tapped her top lip with a forefinger. ‘He has a heart of gold but he moves in dangerous places. That could be his downfall.’

Rebecca squirmed in her chair. ‘But, do you see me? What about my marriage?’ She ignored Catrin’s sharp intake of breath.

The woman’s gaze roamed the arc of brightly-coloured cards spread over the kitchen table’s surface. ‘My lady, I’ve heard you’re betrothed to Sir Geraint.’

‘Yes, but will I marry him? My lord is fair, not dark. He has a beard and one eye awry. Might there be some different path ahead for me?’ Rebecca wheedled.

The woman’s swollen fingers gathered the cards. Her pumpkin bump bulged when she leaned forward. Rebecca watched, fascinated.

‘Choose three,’ said Mrs Owen.

‘We should go now,’ said Catrin. ‘We must be tiring you, Mrs Owen.’

The other two ignored her as they gazed at the curious images. A small boy wriggled from his grandma’s lap and crawled across the floor to tug Rebecca’s skirt. She bent to ruffle his hair.

Mrs Owen sat back with a sigh. ‘Lovers meeting. A kiss. A voyage. That’s what I see.’

‘Soothsayers know what to say to young women, Becca. Don’t be deceived. She probably tells that particular tale over and over.’

‘Maybe she does and maybe not. Didn’t you notice her face? It was as if she saw something different from what she knew was planned and it puzzled her. Why do that if she was repeating the same old story?’

‘She liked the basket of goodies we took,’ said Catrin. ‘Wanted to give something in return.’

‘If she’s right and I escape marrying that greasy toad, I’ll return one day and reward her.’

‘You mustn’t fill your head with such notions. Wedding preparations have begun. Run away and you face scandal and poverty. You’d hardly be able to return and reward her then.’ Catrin stopped to catch her breath.

Rebecca stalked ahead. They were crossing the dunes. The empty provisions basket was hidden under a willow tree Catrin swore made a useful landmark. Hampered by skirts and petticoats, their boots sinking into sand, progress was erratic.

‘I hope we haven’t missed him.’ Rebecca stopped. ‘Look – let’s climb down here. It’ll be quicker.’

‘That way’s too steep.’ Catrin still lagged behind.

Rebecca ignored her, knowing the girl must follow if she wanted to keep her in sight. She began clambering down the grassy slope.

A lone rider on a chestnut horse followed the shoreline. He’d rounded the headland while the girls were talking and continued his progress towards their side of the cove. The breeze caught the jingle of spurs, spinning the sound through the warm air. His horse cantered then galloped. Rebecca halted, watching the man throw back his head and laugh the laugh of a man at ease in his skin. She longed to be on that horse with him, arms wrapped around his waist, her breasts pressed against his back. The powerful image stole her breath.

‘Careful, Becca. You might hurt yourself.’

‘Come on, slowcoach. Let yourself go ...’

Catrin shrieked. Hand in hand, the two of them toppled down the remaining slope and landed in a flurry of lacy petticoats and linen drawers on the damp sand.

A shadow loomed. ‘Are you two young ladies all right? That was quite a tumble.’

The girls peered up at the tall figure silhouetted against the shore. His eyes danced as he looked down at them. He dismounted before they could move. His shirt was open almost to his waist.

Rebecca, cheeks warming, looked straight up at the dark tangle on his chest. A tiny breeze teased her curls. Without Catrin’s presence, would she have remained on the sand? She scrambled to her feet. The horseman held out his hand to her. Instinctively she took it, feeling the firm warmth of his fingers. His admiring gaze roamed her body as if savouring every inch. Going where his fingers had gone in her fantasy. She wouldn’t have tolerated such insolence had he not been the subject of her night fantasies. A frisson of triumph jolted her.

The mare tossed her mane, whickering as she pawed the sand. Her rider turned to her, his fingers whispering down the side of her head, making her nuzzle him. Watching this affectionate gesture, Rebecca felt a pang of envy.

‘You should have averted your eyes when we tumbled down the slope, Sir,’ Catrin chided.

Rebecca stifled a giggle. Maybe Miss Prim was practising for her future role of preacher’s wife.

‘My apologies. Your servant, Ma’am,’ said the stranger, closing his eyes and stretching out both arms towards the girls in mock supplication.

Rebecca was shaken by the impact of his nearness. A shadow of stubble darkened his chin. He wasn’t too tall yet topped her by a couple of inches. The strength evident in his frame seemed less potent than the gentleness when he’d cupped her elbow, helping steady her as she rose. She didn’t know which was worse. Hot cheeks or the stirring of something indefinable, unknown, and potentially dangerous. This wasn’t only a meeting contrived by two young women seeking fun. It was something instinctive. It made her clench her fists at her sides. How easy it would be to run to him and claim that kiss, yet now he was within touching distance, she felt shy. Longing for the touch of his lips, she knew this must only happen because he felt the same. There should be no snatched kiss resulting from a stupid wager.

‘Will I look now?’ His creamy Irish lilt sent tremors down Rebecca’s spine.

‘We should continue our exercise,’ said Catrin. ‘We walk for the sake of our constitutions.’

He opened his eyes and nodded. ‘Then I’ll detain you no longer, Ma’am. I too consider the sea air good for my well-being.’ He smiled at Catrin but it was Rebecca upon whom his gaze lingered. ‘Jac Maddocks at your service, Ma’am.’

The horse’s whinny broke the spell. Jac placed one booted foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. The mare tossed her head eagerly. Nodding courteously to the young women, the young man slapped the mare’s flank and horse and rider cantered back the way they’d come.

Catrin spoke first. ‘I think we should declare the wager void After all, you as good as achieved it. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.’

Rebecca didn’t answer. She had her back to Catrin, her gaze following the retreating rider, lingering on his tight breeches. Her lips moved soundlessly as, unseen by her companion, she tasted Jac’s name on her tongue.

‘Come on.’ Catrin nudged her. ‘We must get back before your father sends a search party. Put the dark-haired knave out of your mind, Becca. Dangerous places are not for the likes of you and me.’

Rebecca turned on her. ‘I thought you said Mrs Owen’s prediction was claptrap,’ she snapped.

Too casually, Jac related the afternoon’s incident to his uncle over supper. Dermot chortled at the description of the two girls tumbling down the slope to land in a provocative bundle at his nephew’s feet.

‘It sounds to me like Lord Beaumont’s daughter,’ he said. ‘I mean little Rebecca and her cousin Catrin. Poor Becca lost her mother too soon for her own good. Though Biddy’s tried her best to look after the girl’s needs.’ He winked at Jac. ‘The father’s too, I wouldn’t mind wagering.’

The innuendo was lost on Jac. ‘If that was Rebecca I met, she’s no longer a little girl.’ His mind conjured up a picture of swirled petticoats. The tantalising glimpse of long legs. Now he knew the redhead’s name. She was gentry. Dared he address her, should their paths cross again?

Dermot cocked an eyebrow. ‘Not for you to notice. That particular nectar’s promised to Lord Geraint. Rebecca’s father’s estate adjoins the land Geraint owns. Hugh Beaumont has set his stall out. Geraint likes the notion. Who could blame him? He’s years younger than Hugh. Rebecca’s brother, Rhys, is long gone, poor lad. As is the mother, God rest her soul.’

For a moment, Jac saw something resembling regret flicker in his uncle’s eyes. There was history here and Jac wanted to know it.

‘They’ll be after an heir to the two estates, that pair,’ said Dermot.

‘Explain to me,’ said Jac. ‘Who is this Geraint?’

‘A well-born, nasty piece of work. I know for sure he’s in cahoots with Will Bevan. Geraint’s skilled at hiding his true colours. I’ve always suspected he was behind the killing of Rebecca’s brother.’

‘Yet you say she’s promised to this man?’ Jac looked startled.

‘Geraint has a pedigree, though I hate to admit it. That, his fortune and his acres have conspired to tip his wick with gold. In the eye of the beholder he’s a good catch. But whoever shares his name and bed won’t have it easy. They say he’s partial to boys, not only girls. Whatever they are, he prefers ’em with the dew still on.’ Dermot’s face hardened. He grabbed his tankard and drank from it. ‘Rebecca can’t be more than 17, poor little baggage. That bastard must be slavering at the thought of bedding her. If she was my daughter, I’d be fishing calmer waters to find her a husband.’

Jac felt his skin prickle. Anger and disgust welled up. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he cried. ‘Can you not say something? What if Rebecca’s father doesn’t know what you know? Is that a possibility?’

Dermot’s lips set in a thin line. He rose and walked over to the window. Spread his hands on the sill. With his back towards his nephew, he said, ‘Hugh and I no longer share confidences.’

‘Then I must say something. We can’t let this marriage proceed!’

Dermot turned around to face the room. ‘We? Leave well alone, Jac. Don’t torture yourself over things outside your control.’ He poured more ale into his tankard and offered his nephew the pitcher.

Jac shook his head, his face ominous as the sun-starved sky. His mind saw pictures it had no business conjuring up. Those thighs would feel like silk under his touch. Longing filled his gut. He felt himself stir.

‘You’re young,’ said Dermot. ‘You have needs. There are wenches in my mansion would be happy to warm you at night. I imagine you’ve already tasted some of the local delights … yes?’

Jac nodded.

Dermot rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Steer clear of the married ones. Above all, don’t meddle where you shouldn’t. By that, I don’t mean the witch’s cave. In my day – but you don’t want to hear an old man’s fantasies.’

Jac wasn’t surprised his uncle too had once fallen under Morwenna’s spell. He got up and in his turn gazed through the window. The calm water reflected dark plum and gunmetal clouds. The sunset, almost too beautiful to bear, matched his emotions. It was easy for his uncle to tell him what and what not to do. Dermot wasn’t fighting an insatiable craving.

‘Tell me what happened,’ said Jac. ‘Why do you and Rebecca’s father no longer share confidences?’

His uncle’s eyelids fluttered. ‘As boys we swam together, fished together. Wrestled in the dunes like fox cubs. Then our characters and our backgrounds began to clash.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve always had a yen for the dark side, if you like. Fortune hunting … danger. Hugh’s father died and as the only son, he inherited everything, including the responsibility.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Hugh lost his heart. And so did I. Things turned complicated. Now the love he felt stifles him like a shroud. He’s loved and lost twice over, you see. Not long after his firstborn, Rhys, was killed, his wife Marion took the fever. The man’s spirit has been broken. His judgement’s clouded. No doubt he’d say the same thing about mine.’ Dermot’s smile was wry.

‘If his judgement’s in question, all the more reason to step in. If Rebecca goes to this Geraint, her life will be a nightmare. What sort of man would wish that to happen?’

Dermot held up his hand in warning. ‘All I know is, if you get involved in this, Hugh’s bound to suspect my fingers pulling the strings. Don’t go near young Rebecca. If you do, you’ll set the hounds of hell baying after your blood. I’ve no wish to lose my only heir. I’ve already lost enough in this life.’

‘You still haven’t explained. You and your childhood friend each fell in love. Why did that separate the pair of you?’

Dermot put his head in his hands.

Realisation hit Jac like a punch in the solar plexus. One woman - two suitors. It was obvious Hugh Beaumont with his enviable heritage would be the favourite. But what of Rebecca’s mother? Had she married the man she wanted? Or had she gone to her grave still nursing a broken heart?

Sleep eluded Jac that night. He pushed back the covers and stretched naked in the moonlight. His hand explored what nudged his inner thigh and his rueful smile was lost in the darkness. Despite his uncle’s earlier warning, the source of Jac’s arousal was of course a woman. Not just any woman but a girl woman with pert breasts begging him to trace his finger underneath. Her nipples would be sweet rosebuds between his lips. As for that ivory skin, cool as her hair was fiery, didn’t it implore him to stroke it? Didn’t it demand his kisses as urgently as her hair made him long to curl his fingers in its coppery depths? He yearned to feel the warmth of her and to breathe her scent, that essence of newly-minted woman.

His mind absorbed the image. His body reacted. Jac groaned, feeling his erection tug him. Taunt him. He slid his right hand down its length, pushing air through his lips.

He had to put Rebecca out of his mind. So which of the women he’d bedded since living with his uncle would he wish to satisfy his need now? Was it the young widow Bishopston with her eager arms, those dimpled cushiony thighs the gateway to her honey pot? Gentle and grateful, she never chided him for disturbing her, whatever ungodly hour. Beneath him, she vibrated like a taut-stringed harp. The more he fucked her, the more she cried for more. She fed him bread and wine afterwards and sent him on his way with a kiss.

Or was it the raven-haired beauty the locals called the witch? Morwenna’s hot, sweet as raspberries mouth, her artful darting tongue, could bring a man to the edge. Hold him there, before he plummeted into the great beyond. At first she’d feign reluctance, sharpening her tongue on him until, patience almost spent; his need gnawing his innards and glazing his eyes, she’d allow him into her bed. Snarling or cooing, the temptress’ mix of reticence and earthiness excited him beyond belief.

So why would a brief encounter with a virgin urge him to forego such sensual pleasures? The flame-haired girl was a willow wand against the widow’s voluptuousness. And how could Rebecca equal the witch’s skill in the art of satisfying a man? He knew he could no more kick Miss Bright Eyes out of his dreams than resist saddling up Uncle Dermot’s chestnut when the mare whinnied and nuzzled her starry face against him in the mornings. Women and horseflesh fell like ripe fruit into Jac’s hands. And here he was, lusting after the unattainable. Like some horny youth desperate to prove his manhood.

Jac had an eye for quality. He’d noticed the cut of Rebecca’s gown, the richness of its fabric. This girl was not for him. Dermot’s warning rang in his ears. Better to forget her. But she was still there when he closed his eyes. Her curls tumbled round her face as he gave himself up to his fantasy. Let her bend over him to take him in her mouth. How gentle she was. How persistent. Jac groaned. Forbidden fruit. Always the sweetest.

He curled his fingers around his cock and let his dream ride him.