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Fool. Wasn’t it weakness, to not be able to resist her?

To not care if she destroyed him in the end, as long as they had this first?

It felt exactly like stepping off the boat onto the beach at San Cristóbal.

He knew he was going to be shot to hell, and he was going to do it anyway, for the glory of the act itself and the impossible hope of reaching what lay beyond.

“Dress yourself,” she said softly, “and come to breakfast. Dovey should be back this morning. She and Mathry went to attend a childbed, the woman who runs the pie shop. We will speak when they return.”

“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. Not is. 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 by real ? 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 little pwt in 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?

Sweet was 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 lied to 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—”

“Gwen bach! ” Widow Jones’s voice floated across the garden. “ Saeson at 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.”

She rounded the corner of St. Sefin’s church to find Mother Morris glaring down the front drive, hands on her thick hips.

She and Widow Jones had run out of bushes in the back, so were draping linens over the strawberry tree that grew near the old stone wall that outlined the property.

Gwen spotted two of Pen’s shirts and an image streaked through her mind of helping him dress that morning, scattering kisses and caresses over all that splendid bare skin and muscle before she had to hide it from the world.

She wasn’t ready to lose him. She never would be.

“ Twll din pob Saes ,” Mother Morris muttered.

Barlow stood beside the low front porch, as if it were beneath him to set foot on it. Next to him was a younger man in a brown riding coat and breeches with thick cinnamon-brown curls crammed beneath his hat. Panic slammed through Gwen as she recognized him. Penrydd’s secretary.

He was saying something in English to Barlow but stuttered to a stop as the three women approached. Gwen twisted her hands in her shawl to hide her tremors.

“Miss ap Ewyas.” The secretary’s eyes widened.

“ Prynhawn da , Mr. Barlow, Mr.—”

“Ross,” he supplied. He watched her with fascination, as if she were some exotic plant he’d discovered.

He’d been there at the interview, this man, laughing up his sleeve as Gwen tried to barter for St. Sefin’s and Pen tried to make her his mistress.

Had he come with Barlow to turn them out at last?

“Mr. Ross.” She gulped and addressed him in English. “We are grateful for your offer to buy St. Sefin’s. We are collecting the fifteen hundred pounds. I hope you can allow us more time. It is a—substantial sum for us, as you might guess.”

“Er—yes. I was rather hoping you had the funds already. His lordship is eager to see the transaction concluded.” Ross glanced at Mathry as she strolled up behind Gwen, then sheared his eyes away as if the sight burned him.

“His lordship?” Gwen asked, confused.

“Will gladly be rid of it,” Barlow said with irritation. “Particularly if the Vaughns bring a suit.”

Gwen’s throat went dry. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Calvin Vaughn has gone before the justice of the peace saying he has evidence you are running a disorderly house out of St. Sefin’s.” Barlow glared as if he had no doubt this were true.

“Who is the other accuser?” Dovey spoke up. “For there must be at least two.”

“Mr. Daron Sutton, gentleman,” Ross said.

“He’s not even a resident of this parish!” Mathry squawked. Ross’s eyes shifted back to her and stuck.

“This is not a disorderly house,” Gwen said, clenching her fists in her shawl. “There is no drinking, no gaming here, and certainly no—nothing of what he implies. We have separate dormitories for men and women.” The only person engaged in bawdiness was her.

Ross knew of the proposition Pen had made her. And here she was, enjoying Pen’s bed. What must that look like to Ross? Or to Pen?

“The judge will make that decision, should Mr. Vaughn decide to bring a suit. He gave me the impression he could be persuaded from pressing the case, with good enough reasons.” The solicitor frowned. “We will find it difficult to sell the property if you have made it notorious.”

“I will confer with his lordship to see if he will make a concession on the price,” Ross said loftily. “Though you must give him time to reply.”

Gwen reached to take Dovey’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

“We can ask him now,” she said, feeling the earth shift beneath her. “Here he comes.”

Pen stalked like the master of the land across the overgrown lawn that led from St. Woolos, matching his strides to those of Ifor, who rambled beside him.

Gafr bobbed between them, munching on a cluster of grasses.

Pen and Evans were deep in conversation with the vicar, while Tomos trudged behind them clutching a handful of daisies.