Redeeming Jack (15 page)

She swung around as the parlor door opened. Startled, she stared into the eyes of Lady Amelia Rice, Oliver’s mother. Lady Rice wore shades of lavender as if coming out of mourning; a large brooch pinned to her ample bosom depicted a portrait of her deceased son, David, the man Jack had supposedly led to his death. If Carys was not mistaken, it was a declaration of war.

“Lady Rice, what a pleasant surprise,” Carys said after an awkward pause. “I didn’t realize you were returning to the countryside.” She pasted on a social smile and straightened from her curtsey as Lady Rice stopped right in front of her.

“Oliver told me you were staying here.” Lady Rice drew an agitated breath. “I wish you to leave my son alone.”

Carys sat down on the nearest chair. “Oliver is old enough to make his own decisions. I have certainly not made them for him, alas. I do not have the power.”

With a great deal of fussing, Lady Rice settled herself in a chair opposite Carys. “It seems that you do. Where else would Oliver get this ridiculous idea of bankrolling your divorce, if not from you?”

“I can assure you that your son’s decision came as a surprise to me as well. I have—”

“Is it money you want?” Lady Amelia interrupted. “I know the Llewelyns barely acknowledge your existence. Do you need money?”

“I live well enough. I don’t require your charity, or the Llewelyns.” She attempted to rise. “I really think you should share your concerns with your son, not with me.”

Lady Rice grabbed hold of her hand and Carys stiffened. “I tried to talk to Oliver but he refuses to listen to me.” Tears shone in her eyes. “I can understand why you would want to disown that wastrel, Jack Llewelyn, but why choose my only living son to replace him? If you would release Oliver from your clutches, I’m sure he’d find a nice girl and marry her.”

Gazing at Lady Rice, Carys had the strangest desire to soothe her opponent’s fears; only her loyalty to Oliver prevented her. “I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to make your life miserable, but Oliver seems determined to proceed. I will do all I can to ensure he understands the consequences of his actions, but I cannot make him change his mind.”

Lady Rice struggled to her feet and pointed her gloved finger at Carys. “You will sit by while my entire family pays for Oliver’s misguided lust? You will never be welcome in our family, Carys Llewelyn, never!”

Lady Rice exited the parlor. Within minutes, the coach was driven out of the yard, leaving behind the loud complaints of the stable boys who had not been given their usual tip. Carys supposed Lady Rice would be staying for at least one night in her country house. Would she then return to London to complain to Oliver, or would she remain and confront the Llewelyns?

Carys buried her face in her hands. Would she ever be welcome anywhere? The Llewelyns had never truly accepted her either. Despite her dislike of Lady Rice’s need to interfere, Carys sympathized with her plight. No woman wanted her only surviving son to marry a divorced woman immured in scandal. Carys rose, her legs surprisingly unsteady, and gazed at the fire.

It was too much to ask Oliver to sacrifice his family’s good name for her. She would have to love him with all her heart and mind to make up for that loss. Since Jack’s return, Carys now knew that she couldn’t do it. Jack had shown her that with one touch of his mouth on hers. She craved the peace and stability Oliver offered her over the tempest of Jack, but her feelings couldn’t be denied. How could she marry Oliver when her heart belonged to Jack?

Carys blinked back a sudden onrush of tears. She couldn’t allow Oliver to pay for her desperate need for security, even if he thought he wanted to. Firmly she reminded herself that denying Oliver didn’t mean she had to stay with Jack, either. In truth, she was tired of dealing with the aristocracy and craved the quieter life she had created for herself at Rhossili.

A desk stocked with writing supplies in the corner of the room caught her eye. Before she lost her courage, she would write to Oliver and explain her reasons for not marrying him. At least Lady Rice would be happy.

* * *

As the gig rounded the last corner of the cliff road, Carys breathed out a sigh of pure happiness. Rhossili Bay lay before her, its pale, golden sand disappearing into the gray sea like coins spilled from a pirate’s treasure chest. Her white thatched cottage was within walking distance of the beach. She asked the driver to set her down at the edge of her property while he took her bags around to the back.

Carys started down the hillside that led from the white painted fence to the front door. Wildflowers and winter herbs of variegated green undulated in the sea breeze, brushing her skirts and releasing their subtle perfumes.

Home.

By Jack and Oliver’s lofty standards, her house was little more than a hovel, having but three small bedrooms and three rooms below. Water was provided from a well in the back garden, and baths were taken in a tub in front of the kitchen fire. To Carys, the house meant everything. It was her freedom, her sanctuary and her salvation.

As she neared the front door, it swung open, and a boy with hair the color of gilded corn raced toward her. Heedless of her gown, Carys went down on one knee and opened her arms as the solid weight of her son landed on her breast.

“Mama, you’re back!”

Carys hugged Owen with all her strength, relishing the heat of his bronzed skin and the dusty smell of hay that clung to his hair. “Owen,
bach
, I am.”

She held him by the shoulders, pulling him back so that she could look at him properly. He’d grown in their four-week separation, she was sure of it. With a delighted smile, Carys got to her feet, took Owen’s grubby hand and continued down the path.

“Martha made welsh cakes, mama. She knew you would come back today. She said a little bird told her.”

Carys allowed herself to be dragged through the house into the kitchen, where Martha—her cook, her best friend and Owen’s nurse—awaited her.

Martha wiped her hands on her apron and swept Carys into her floury embrace. “
Shwt ych chi
? I’m so glad you’ve returned. We were growing a little anxious.”

With a sigh, Carys discarded her bonnet and cloak and sat down at the scrubbed pine table. “I’m well, Martha. I didn’t intend to be so long. Several unforeseen events overtook me.” She glanced at Owen, who was busy setting the table for tea. “I’ll tell you all my adventures later.”

By the time an excited Owen had been given his presents and settled into bed, Carys was fit only to sit in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea. Martha banked up the stove for the night, left the warming oven open for the cat to sleep in and settled herself on the other side of the table.

Carys gave her a weary smile. “Thank you for looking after Owen. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Martha, who had been Jack’s nurse before she took up residence with Carys, poured herself a cup of tea. “You’d manage,
bach
. I know you would.”

Carys pushed the sugar bowl toward Martha. “Jack’s back.”

Martha looked delighted. She had always been Jack’s champion. “Is he now? I thought you went up to London to discuss marrying Lord Oliver Rice, not to find his lordship.”

“I did. Lord Rice still wants to fund my divorce from Jack. I tried to put him off, and I insisted that I needed to speak to Jack before we could make any announcement about an engagement. Lord Rice was most put out. Unfortunately, then Jack turned up like a bad penny and seems reluctant to agree to anything.”

“Of course he’s reluctant. Jack loves you.” Martha topped up Carys’s tea. “I should imagine that when you told him about the boy, he was even more determined not to give you up.”

“I didn’t tell him anything. He didn’t even ask!” She sighed. “I’m almost certain that he heard the rumors, so his silence spoke of his complete reluctance to admit he has an heir. It is just like Jack to ignore anything unpleasant in his life. He doesn’t deserve to be Owen’s father.” Carys chewed on her lip. “In truth, when I deliberately mentioned Owen’s name, Jack became as jealous as if I were speaking of a lover.”

Martha put her cup on the table and passed a plate of welsh cakes to Carys. “Are you certain Jack knows about Owen?”

“Why would he not?” Carys asked, biting into the soft flat scone. “I wrote several letters during the first two years of our separation informing him that he had become a father. He didn’t bother to reply to a single one of them.”

“Where did you send the letters?”

“I sent them to Jack’s mother.” Carys hesitated. “She assured me she knew where Jack was and promised to send them on. Why do you ask such a thing now, after all these years?”

“Because I know my Jack,” Martha said finally. “If he thought he had a son, he’d come back.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“Because Jack stayed away. I didn’t want to disrupt your peace of mind over something that couldn’t be fixed, but I’ve always wondered…”

Carys stared at the faded roses around the edge of the plate and whispered, “Jack’s not the same. He’s changed. He’s harder, less vulnerable, more…intimidating. Perhaps he no longer believes he needs a family.”

Martha snorted. “Jack’s been searching for someone to love ever since he was a wee lad. He changed for the better when he found you,
bach
. And if he’s come to his senses and realized that, you don’t stand a chance of making him leave again.”

Carys nodded. Martha only echoed her own thoughts. Jack was far more formidable now that he’d been hardened and tested than as a spoiled young man. Doubt struck her. Was it possible he hadn’t realized he had a son?

“I also didn’t discuss Owen with Jack because I was afraid to give him a weapon to use against me.” Carys bit her lip. “He was so angry about the prospect of a divorce that I feared he might take Owen away from me. He has the right, even if we separate.”

Martha looked unconvinced and Carys continued. “One of the reasons I agreed to marry Oliver was because he promised to treat Owen as his own son.”

“But he’ll never be anything but a Llewelyn, will he? He’s Jack’s image. Do you think Lord Rice will ever reconcile himself to that?”

“That is all mote now, anyway. I’ve realized I can’t marry Oliver while things are in such a state with Jack.” She groaned. “I can only deal with one problem at a time. In truth, I wish they would both disappear so that I can live here with you and Owen without ever worrying again.”

Martha claimed her hand and squeezed it. “I know the Llewelyns have never been kind to you, Carys, but to keep a man from his son is a serious matter.”

“I suppose I’ll have to pay Lady Llewelyn a visit before she leaves for London.” She hesitated. “Do you really think she might have kept my letters from Jack?”

“If Jack seems oblivious to the idea that he has a son, then it is the most obvious cause. I doubt every single letter you sent was lost somewhere en route. Her ladyship has no love for you. She never did.” Martha shook her finger at Carys. “Don’t let her intimidate you.”

Carys smiled. “Don’t forget, Jack’s not the only one who has grown up.”

JACK TIGHTENED HIS grip on the sodden leather reins as his horse shifted its feet and slipped sideways in the mud. A fine drizzle had dogged their journey from Swansea and now threatened to develop into a deluge. From his vantage point, Jack looked down on the white-washed cottages of Oxwich village. At the top of the man-made hill opposite stood Oxwich Manor, an Elizabethan mock-fortified manor house built on the foundations of Oxwich Castle.

As the son of a duke, Jack had been on close terms with the Mansell family, who’d occupied the dwelling for several generations. If he and Gareth had no luck in the church or the village, he might have to seek information from the Mansells and be damned to their curiosity.

Jack’s horse tossed his head, dousing Jack in the process. Turning to speak to Gareth, he found his companion had already taken shelter under a tree. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself and joined him. After dismounting, Jack extracted his spyglass from his cavernous pocket and polished the lens. He focused his gaze on the cottage he believed Mrs. Forester was hiding in. Gareth blew his nose into a large handkerchief.

“I hate this rain,” Gareth said. “We can start at the church if you like. There’s no attached living accommodation, and I don’t believe there’s a regular incumbent here. The Anglican community is small. I should imagine they hold a service once a month if they’re lucky.”

Jack didn’t reply, his attention caught by the wide expanse of salt marsh and sand dunes that led to Oxwich beach. He licked the tang of salt from his lips as the stark bleached colors and scents of his childhood assaulted him. He tried to fix the scent in his mind so he’d never forget it again.

After the ambush in Spain, when he’d lain near death, images of the countryside of his birth had tantalized his stumbling descent from the treacherous mountains. When lack of water and his wounds reduced his efforts to a crawl, the pale rocks surrounding him became the cliffs he played on as a boy above Carmarthen Bay.

Instinctively, Jack fumbled in his pocket until his fingers closed around his metal hip flask of brandy. The rain didn’t bother him as much as it did Gareth. He’d survived in harsher climes and appreciated its life-giving force.

“At least the church will be warm and dry, and we can check the parish registrar if it’s there,” Jack said. “We could do with some more information about the inhabitants of the village.” Jack slapped Gareth on the back. “Come on, old friend. We wouldn’t want you suffering a chill.”

It took Jack less than a minute to break the rusty chain holding the side door of the church shut. Gareth muttered a prayer as they stepped inside the musty-smelling stone building. Jack’s head snapped up as sparrows chattered a warning from their nests in the medieval hammerbeam roof. An indignant shower of feathers and dried grass rained down on his unprotected head.

“The church must have belonged to the original castle,” Gareth whispered. “It’s far older than the manor house.”