Stormswept 1 As sweet is your pose As a riverbank rose Or a posy where lily or lavender blows. --HUW MORUS, "PRAISE OF A GIRL" Juliana St. Albans gestured at the tall young man who stood stiff and sober before the crowded room. "Is that Rhys Vaughan?" He seemed different from the other Sons of Wales sitting in the basement of Gentlemen''s Bookshop in Carmarthen. "That can''t be him. He looks too quiet." Her Welsh lady''s maid, Lettice Johnes, snorted. "For what? Did you expect a hard-drinking, hard-boasting gambler like his late father, the squire?" Juliana swept her gaze around the room.
"I expected none of this." In her naiveté, she''d thought to find serious young men discussing politics in earnest voices . not this rabble of hotheads. "I don''t suppose you want to go home now?" Lettice sounded so hopeful that Juliana had to smile. "Not after I went to all the trouble of dressing like a poor Welsh servant to follow you here." "I should never have told Morgan I would attend," Lettice grumbled. "And I shouldn''t have let you stay once you showed up. He won''t be happy about that.
" "It''s not your fault. If your sweetheart wasn''t always so heedless of his surroundings when he courts you, I wouldn''t have overheard him mention the meeting." And Rhys Vaughan''s part in it. "Pray God none of the Sons of Wales recognize you. They''ll think you a spy, and Lord only knows how they''ll react." "No one will guess who I really am." Juliana wore her simplest gown, a mob cap to cover her telltale red hair, and a Welsh shawl. It was the perfect disguise.
"If your father finds out you were here consorting with ''those dirty Welsh,'' he''ll give you a thrashing. You''d best leave before you get into trouble." A pox on Lettice for always trying to tell her how to behave! At twenty-one, Juliana wasn''t a child anymore. Why, most women were already married, bearing children, and running households. Surely she was old enough to attend a late-night meeting of Welsh radicals. "Will you stop haranguing me if I promise not to get caught?" Juliana snapped. "This meeting won''t be the ''romantic'' Welsh poetry and history you fancy. It''ll be rough men waving their arms and shouting about politics.
" "They''re not shouting now." "They will be, once Rhys Vaughan starts to speak his piece." Juliana glanced to where the squire''s son stood beside a burly shopkeeper, waiting for the meeting to begin. The men in the audience were scowling and making sarcastic comments as the squire''s son strove to ignore them. "Why are they so hostile to him?" Juliana asked. "The young Mr. Vaughan has been away a long time at university and on the Grand Tour. Since his father loved to talk of how the English would save Wales, this lot is suspicious of the son.
" "But children don''t always take after their parents." "Aye. Heaven knows you''re nothing like yours." Lettice flashed her a speculative glance. "You came just to see Mr. Vaughan, didn''t you?" Her maid was far too perceptive. "Of course. I wanted to hear his lecture.
He''s speaking about the Welsh language, isn''t he?" "Aye, but that''s not why you''re curious. After what your father did to the Vaughans, you want to see what the son is like. So what do you think of the man whose inheritance your father stole?" Juliana stiffened. "Papa didn''t steal Llynwydd. Squire Vaughan was a profligate man who lost his estate through his own recklessness. He shouldn''t have played cards at such high stakes if he hadn''t been prepared to lose." "Perhaps. And perhaps your father shouldn''t have agreed to such high stakes.
A man''s estate is his life." Lettice leaned closer. "Some claim the squire was drunk when he made that bet. And some claim your father cheated, in his eagerness to get a fine estate to use as your dowry." Juliana winced. "I don''t care what the gossips say. Papa won that estate fairly." "Then why deed it to you? Fathers don''t generally give their daughters ownership of their dowry properties, especially when the family''s finances are strained.
He wants to protect Llynwydd from whoever might challenge his claim." "That''s not true." Papa had only been trying to secure Llynwydd for her so Darcy couldn''t appropriate it for himself after Papa died. "But I''m sorry the squire''s son has no more inheritance now." "Aye, and no father, either." Guilt assailed Juliana. The squire had killed himself after losing his estate. And all because of what Papa had done to protect her.
She''d come here hoping to find Mr. Vaughan to be as much a profligate as his father, someone she could despise. Instead, she found a sober fellow too serious for his age. And far too handsome. He had an unblemished brow, a determined mouth, and the strong jaw of a man of character. He didn''t look much older than she, yet unlike other young men, he didn''t fidget or shift from foot to foot like an impatient heron. His regal reserve and arrogant stance obviously came from good breeding. Like Darcy, he exuded confidence.
His neat clothing wasn''t extravagant, but it was certainly finer than that of the others. Yet he shockingly wore no wig. Like a common Welsh laborer, he kept his lustrous black hair tied back in a queue. And his eyes were all passion and fire . blue and wild and fierce, like the crashing waters of the Welsh sea. He must have sensed her watching him, for he turned his gaze to her. She caught her breath, afraid he might see through her flimsy disguise. But when he gave her the barest half-smile and his gaze moved on, her breath whooshed out of her.
He wasn''t at all like other men of rank she knew, who were cold and lackluster even when they smiled at her. Like King Arthur, Mr. Vaughan thrummed with power. Arthur had been Welsh, too, a scholar and not a warrior. She could almost envision Mr. Vaughan admonishing his knights to uphold the ideals of the realm. Oh bother! As usual, she was making everything romantic. Rhys Vaughan wasn''t an Arthur, and certainly not a king.
"There he is, the devil," Lettice muttered. Juliana looked over to see Morgan Pennant coming down the row toward them. The handsome printer in his thirties always smelled of ink and paper. Men generally trailed after Lettice like lapdogs, but only Mr. Pennant had captured the maid''s affections. Unfortunately, his involvement with the Sons of Wales had forced her to keep her courtship secret. But she hadn''t been able to keep it from Juliana''s curious eyes. As Mr.
Pennant sat down beside Lettice, he laid a proprietary hand on hers, then leaned forward to see who her companion was. When he caught sight of Juliana his smile faded, and he shot Lettice a quizzical glance. "What''s she doing here? ''Tisn''t a place for an English girl." "She followed me after she heard you invite me. You did say Mr. Vaughan would be talking about reviving the Welsh language." Lettice shrugged. "Once she was here, I couldn''t send her home alone, could I?" "I don''t like it," Mr.
Pennant grumbled. Lettice patted his hand. "You needn''t fear that she''ll speak of it to anyone." "I know." Mr. Pennant glanced over at Juliana, who was trying to look as innocent as possible. "I''m more concerned for her safety. You mustn''t let Vaughan know who she is.
" "Certainly not," Lettice said. The crowd''s gabbling increased as the shopkeeper stepped forward to the podium, and said in Welsh, "Today we are privileged to have with us Mr. Rhys Vaughan, son of our own Squire Vaughan." "Aye," called someone from the crowd, "the great Squire Vaughan." The sarcastic tone drew laughter from the crowd. The shopkeeper went on, reciting Mr. Vaughan''s affiliation with the Gwyneddigion Society, a well-known London group supporting Welsh causes, but the crowd grew only more hostile. Juliana couldn''t keep her eyes off Mr.
Vaughan''s hardening features. The poor man! When he scanned the crowd, a dark scowl beetling his forehead, she waited until his eyes met hers again, then flashed him an encouraging smile. His eyes widened, then became unnervingly direct. As she continued to smile at him, some of the sternness left his face. He kept his gaze trained on her even as he took his place behind the podium. There, he laid out his notes and drew a deep breath. "Good day. I''m very pleased to be here.
" As low, angry mutters punctuated the tense silence, his expression grew grim. He surveyed the room, pausing at her, and once more, she gave him a reassuring smile. "I am a man without a country. As are all of you." Rich and resonant as thunder in the mountains, his voice raised goose bumps on her skin. "And why is that?" He paused. "Not because England holds us captive to strange laws. And not even because the cloak of the English church sits poorly on our shoulders.
Nay, we''re without a country because our language has been stolen." A fervent energy lit his face as he warmed to his subject, and he shook a sheaf of legal papers. "When you go to sell your cattle, what language is your bill of sale written in?" While he waited for an answer, she held her breath. Then a man called out, "English." Mr. Vaughan smiled coldly. "Aye. And when you choose a book of verse from the lending library, what language is it written in, more often than not?" "English.