Stormswept Read Free Page A

mightsee 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! ” cried a few men in unison. They’d begun to sense his