Chapter Eight
Owen’s Aunt Morfudd turned out to be a complete delight.
She was preoccupied by the maintenance work at Caernarfon Castle, but she was happy to speak about anything Welsh. The first night they all dined together, Morfudd taught Grace a few Welsh words. “I always start with draig,” she’d explained. “Say it with me.”
Grace repeated the word. “What does it mean?”
“Dragon,” said Morfudd with a wink.
The next day, Morfudd escorted Owen and Grace on a tour of the castle, which was far less charming than Grace had hoped.
One heard the word castle and pictured something grand, but Caernarfon was mostly a broad brick facade with few windows.
Inside, there wasn’t much to see. There were many empty rooms, and parts of the castle that were inaccessible because walls had caved in and the rooms were too damaged.
“What I’d like,” Morfudd explained, “would be to turn this into a museum of Welsh history. But for now, I’d settle for using some of the empty rooms to show exhibits about the history of the castle.
The first English Prince of Wales was born here, you know, and we have never forgiven Edward I for the dishonor. ”
“The English Prince of Wales feels like a contradiction,” said Grace.
“The Welsh people could not abide by a Prince of Wales who spoke English. Cymru rydd! But Edward I insisted his son be dubbed Prince of Wales, and since he was a baby, he did not speak English, because he did not speak anything, and we let him get away with it. And so Llewellyn the Last was the last Welsh Prince of Wales. Unless you count Owain Glyndwr.”
“I do,” said Owen. “Cymru rydd!” He turned to Grace. “That means ‘Free Wales.’”
“Although, to be clear to your English bride, we are not so revolutionary as to advocate for Welsh independence,” said Morfudd. “At least not out loud.”
“I see,” said Grace, appreciating Morfudd’s attitude.
“We do still speak Welsh to keep the language alive, and we have a few of our own old habits and traditions, although we are of course also part of England as well. A bit of a duality, especially now that Owen here has taken his father’s seat in Parliament. In the English Parliament.”
“Yes, well. King Charles I bestowed the title upon our family, so I suppose we do owe the government something,” said Owen. “I am, in fact, the tenth Earl of Caernarfon.”
“That is remarkable,” said Grace.
“I suppose it is.”
“Come,” said Morfudd, bustling along. “Let me show you the rest of this pile of bricks.”
Two days later, Owen brought Grace to the cottage he’d bought on the coast, although “cottage” felt too humble a word for it. The house was small compared to Car Newydd, but it still had several rooms.
“I have not had time to furnish it much,” Owen explained as he showed her around the property. “I’m not even entirely sure why I thought I should buy it. But it’s lovely, isn’t it?”
And it was. Large windows on the northern exposure of the house looked out at the Irish Sea, which was the house’s main feature. Inside, Owen hadn’t done much except put a bed in one of the bedrooms and a table and chairs in one of the sitting rooms.
“I think in the summer, this will be a wonderful place to be,” Owen said.
“I agree,” Grace said, already imagining what she could do with the space.
She even walked into the garden behind the house, which was overgrown but quite large.
She could put a kiln here. She could put her potter’s wheel in the room at the back of the house, and add shelves to accommodate her supplies, and…
Yes. She wanted to make art right here, so close to the water she could smell it.
She didn’t say anything to Owen, but she figured he’d tell her what he said whenever she asked a question about changing something, which was to give her his full permission.
It was a little bit annoying, how nice he was being. She almost wished he would stop her.
Because the truth was, she was enjoying his company immensely, and she knew that he wanted her to have her way because he wouldn’t be here much. And the thought of that made her sad.
“I do love the water,” Owen said as they stepped outside to look at the sea. “I find it calms me.”
Grace understood that. Owen put an arm around her shoulders and she closed her eyes, hearing the gentle sound of the waves rolling against the rocky coast. There was little else around, save for some other cottages in the distance. It was a peaceful spot. Grace hated to leave it.
“Must we rush back to your estate?” Grace asked.
“We have some time, although I’d like to get started back home before it gets dark.”
She looked up at her husband’s face. One surprising revelation of their nights together was that Grace felt insatiable, constantly wanting more of her husband.
How could that be? They’d made love every night since their marriage, but Grace still wanted more.
They’d barely been able to keep their hands off each other when they were alone.
Sometimes she wondered if this was normal or inappropriate, but certainly the feeling was mutual, so she decided not to wonder too hard.
Grace put her hands on Owen’s shoulders and raised an eyebrow. He looked a little startled at first, but he smiled. “Oh. Er, have I showed you the bedroom?”
“Is there furniture in it?”
“I slept here once shortly after I purchased the cottage because I wanted to see what it would be like to sleep so near the sea at night.” He took her hand and led her down a short hallway. He opened a door. “There’s not much more than an old mattress.”
“Mattress” was a generous description. It was a pallet on a simple wooden bed frame with several blankets draped on top of it.
There was a trunk off to the side and a simple armoire in the corner.
Grace stepped into the room and walked over to the armoire, which she opened.
It held a couple of changes of clothes for Owen—two shirts, a jacket and pair of breeches made of simple broadcloth that looked old enough to be ten years out of fashion—but little else.
This wouldn’t do as a place to sleep for Grace, but she didn’t plan to sleep here tonight.
“You are generous with your funds,” Grace said. “If I were to set up a proper bedroom here, would I bankrupt you?”
“No. That is, my funds are not unlimited, but I intended to furnish the cottage and had set aside money for it. A proper bed is not too much, so long as it is not made of gold.”
“You may have to tell me to stop spending your money at some point.”
“My man of business has an assistant. I can dispatch him to help you manage the money. Or to tell you which expenditures are too great.”
“A proper bed, some chairs, maybe a table to put in that main room. Nothing extravagant.”
Owen put an arm around her shoulders. “I trust you not to bankrupt me.”
There was something magical about this cottage.
It was not large, but it was enough. Space for Grace’s pottery supplies, space for her to sleep and keep some clothes.
She probably couldn’t stay here for many days at a time—she did not know her way around a kitchen, and the one here was small—but the ride wasn’t too long.
An overnight now and then would be workable.
“I see the ideas flitting about your head,” Owen said. “Are you mentally decorating?”
“Yes,” said Grace. “How sturdy is that bed?”
“Why do you ask?” Something sly crept into Owen’s voice.
Grace grinned. “Oh. I did not mean to imply anything. Just whether one could sleep on it without it collapsing.”
“Yes. Like I said, I did it once. It’s not very comfortable, alas. But it might serve a more immediate purpose.”
Grace turned to look at Owen. He winked at her.
Grace felt wanton and inappropriate, but she had not expected to enjoy herself with Owen so much.
She could not get enough of him. Currently, Owen was dressed in a functional brown jacket and trousers, hardly his most dashing kit, and yet Grace still felt drawn to him.
He was breathtakingly handsome, and Grace found that, rather than frighten her as her mother implied he would, seeing Owen out of his clothing was exciting.
His broad chest, his strong arms, his sturdy thighs, all of these things made Grace ache when she beheld them.
She hadn’t known she could feel this way. Sometimes, when she looked at him, she felt like her skin was on fire.
But more than that, the way Owen held her made her feel safe and cared for. The previous night, they’d shuddered to climax together, and after, Owen had held Grace to his chest, like he was unwilling to let her go, and Grace didn’t want him to anyway.
And this was her husband. Her married friends had told stories implying they barely tolerated their husbands, but Grace wanted to spend nearly every minute with hers.
She supposed this feeling would wear off eventually, that once the heady days of their early marriage matured into something steadier, they’d irritate each other the way Grace’s parents did, but for now, it was wonderful.
But he was leaving in a few weeks.
“Perhaps,” she said, “we should make the most of your remaining time in Wales.”
“What did you have in mind?” asked Owen.
Grace stepped away from him and tugged at a ribbon on the bodice of her gown. She wore simple muslin today at Owen’s urging—no expensive fabric that might be damaged in salt air—and loosening the bodice meant the dress could be slipped off easily.
Owen’s expression darkened. “You are incorrigible, my dear. But on the other hand, it would be a crime not to christen this space.”
Grace giggled. She reached over to Owen and slid his jacket off his shoulders. “I am getting my fill before you depart.”
“I will have nothing left when I go. I will be a hollowed-out husk of a man. And I will regret none of it.”
He bent down and kissed her. Yes. This was perfect. This was what Grace wanted. A memory made in this room in her new cottage.