Free Wicked at Heart by Danelle Harmon Page A

encounter to myself!  Besides, I told you,
silly, he did not ravish me."
    "Well, what
was his kiss like?"
    "Rhia . .
."
    Clutching the
book, her sister folded her arms across her bosom and eyed her with high
humor.  A blackbird skimmed over Gwyneth's head and landed in a clipped
conifer, causing the fringed branches to bounce and swing.  How she loved their
musical warbles, their bright-eyed stare —
    "Well?"
Rhiannon repeated, her eyes mischievous.
    "You are
ever the romantic, Rhiannon.  Stop reading those frivolous novels and dreaming
about knights in shining armor, would you?"
    "It is
healthy to dream, Gwyn.  You should try it yourself some time."
    "I am too
busy to dream, and if I did, it would not be about knights in shining armor.  And
especially not Lord Morninghall."
    "Appearances
can be deceiving, Gwyn.  He may not be all bad."
    "For heaven's
sake, Rhiannon, he's in charge of a prison hulk .  You are most welcome
to accompany me on the morrow, to see for yourself what hideous places that
ship and others like her, are.  A disgrace to Britain, if you ask me, a living
hell for those whose only crime was to be caught fighting on the opposite
side."
    As Gwyneth
returned her attention to her daffodils, Rhiannon tapped a finger against the
book's spine and watched her older sister shrewdly.  Gwyneth did her best to
present a militaristic and severe demeanor to the rest of the world, but she
had never been able to fool Rhiannon.  Be strong, Gwyn often advised ;
even if you don't feel strong, at least deceive the world into believing that
you are, and it will be yours on a platter.
    Well, Gwyneth
had sure learned her lessons well.
    If nothing else,
their impoverished upbringing — not to mention old Lord Simms' tutelage — had
made sure of it.
    Gwyneth was back
to kneeling in the dirt, spade in hand, bucket at her elbow.  "Another
five minutes," she said, fussing with her daffodils.  "Please, Rhia,
don't wait for me, your tea will get cold."
    But Rhiannon
stood unmoving, watching her sister quietly, her eyes thoughtful, her mind
remembering . . .   Remembering Gwyneth, the oldest of the three, taking a job
in the local public house all those years ago after Mama and Papa died, so that
Rhia and little Morganna would have food in their bellies.  Gwyneth, never
complaining about the slave-like conditions and never shying from the hard
work.  Gwyneth, always enduring the patrons' endless groping and lewd
suggestions with a brave face, but retreating to her tiny room after closing
time to suffer in silence.  Even now, Rhiannon's heart filled with guilt as she
thought of Gwyneth, dividing the food on her plate between her sisters as she
blithely pled a sour stomach.   They had taken her complaints at face value and
wolfed the food, but how many nights had poor Gwyneth gone to bed without any
supper so that her little sisters would not go hungry?  Swallowing a sudden
lump in her throat, Rhiannon watched the weeds thumping into the wooden bucket,
the movements of Gwyn's delicate shoulders.  No wonder Gwyneth felt the
sufferings of the poor and the unfortunate so keenly.  Their own hard
beginnings were not so easily forgotten.
    And then Lord
Simms had come into their lives.
    The elderly but
kind-hearted widower had been en route to visit a friend in Cardiff when he and
his small entourage had stopped at the public house for the midday meal.  It had been only natural that he should notice the lovely, fair-haired Gwyneth, only
natural that he, as most males who'd set foot in the tavern, would become
immediately fascinated with such a model of sophistication and beauty in the
midst of such country commonness.  The earl had remained in the area, and then
the offers of marriage had come — repeatedly — until the day the pub burned
down after a chimney fire, and Gwyneth, as head of the family, had had no
recourse but to accept his hand in order to keep her sisters fed and clothed.
    Rhiannon alone
knew the