Twice Tempted by a Rogue (11 page)

“Rhys …”

“And I know you don’t believe that yet.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s all right. I’ll keep building—stone by stone, plank by plank, kiss by kiss—until you do. And yes, I’ll wake up stiff and aching for you each morning. But it’s worth it.” He reached out and tilted her face to his. “You’re worth it.”

Her eyes went wide. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood and reached for his waistcoat. “What I am is indestructible. And I’m not going anywhere, Meredith. You’re stuck with me now.”

Chapter Eight

“Here you are. Coddled eggs and toast.” Meredith laid the plate in front of her father.

He frowned at it. “Thought I asked for fried.”

“Did you?” She propped her hands on the waistline of her green serge skirt and stared at the plate. “Are you sure?”

“I’m getting old, Merry. But not so old I can’t remember what I said five minutes ago.”

She plunked the salt down in front of him. “Just eat them. Eggs are eggs.”

His bushy eyebrows rose as he lifted his coffee. “What’s gotten into you this morning? You’re not your usual self.”

No. No, she wasn’t. What a morning. Thank goodness Rhys hadn’t shown his face for breakfast. She wouldn’t have known what to say to him. And considering her state of distraction, she probably would have served him burnt porridge with a side of soap.

“I’m sorry, Father.” She moved back to the stove and cracked two eggs into a buttered pan. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Perhaps I’m not sleeping enough of late.”

“You haven’t slept enough in years, Merry. You’re always working yourself too hard. Things will improve, now that Rhys is back.”

“I’m not engaged to Rhys.” Just how many times would she be forced to say those words before someone believed them?

“Even if you aren’t. He’ll give me a post, and I can support you for a change. The way it should be. You can rest.”

Meredith shook her head. As if she would allow her crippled, aged father to perform manual labor while she sat idly by. “I don’t want to rest. I want to keep my inn.”

Rhys had truly moved her earlier, with his little speech about building the house, and constructing it to last. The excitement shining in his eyes had been wonderful to see. She understood just what he meant, because she felt the same way about the Three Hounds. No, she hadn’t built it from the ground up, but she’d worked herself not just to the bone, but to the marrow to make the inn what it was today. She was damned proud of it, too.

This place represented independence, security, friendship, personal satisfaction … a home. Everything she’d ever wanted in her life, save one thing.

Rhys St. Maur.

And now, miracle of miracles, it seemed that Rhys wanted her, too. But only if she agreed to marry him. Only if she gave up the inn.

He simply didn’t understand. Her responsibilities extended beyond caring for her father. The Three Hounds was the financial and social heart of the village. Everyone in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor depended on it, and depended on
her
to manage it.

She slid the fried eggs onto a plate, then placed it in front of her father, switching out the coddled ones for herself. After pouring herself a mug of coffee, she sat down across from him. For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

When the eggs had fortified her sufficiently and she felt up to addressing the subject, she said, “Father, listen to me. Please don’t get carried away with wild ideas. We can’t be sure Rhys is here to stay. He’s a gentleman having a lark pushing stones about the countryside. When the amusement wears off, what then? He may decide his ‘fate’ lies elsewhere and leave.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” She lowered her voice and tried again. “Haven’t you noticed, Father? Everyone who
can
leave this place, does.”

His brow creased. “When did you become so jaded, Merry?”

Ten years ago. When I married a man several years your senior, just to put a roof over our heads
.

“I’m not jaded. I’m being realistic. Someone has to be.” Unfortunately, it seemed that someone must always be her. It certainly wouldn’t be Rhys, with his strange insistence on destiny. Would fate get the laundry done?

She pushed back from the table. “Mrs. Ware will look after anything else you need. I’d best gather the linens for Betsy.”

She went upstairs and gathered the bedclothes from each room, beginning with her own cramped, simple quarters, and continuing to her father’s slightly larger room, then proceeding through every guest room, whether they had been occupied in the past week or not. Meredith knew that people of means typically traveled with their own sheets, but she made it a point to dress the beds in clean linens, as a matter of aesthetics and pride.

She saved Rhys’s bedchamber for last, telling herself to invade the unoccupied room, whisk the sheets from the mattress, and make a quick retreat. But of course, the corner of one sheet snagged on the bedpost, and she had to climb atop the mattress to tug at it … and deuce it, the sheets were pitifully clean, when by all rights they should have been marked with passion.

And she was so very tired.

For a moment, she contemplated flopping onto the bed, snuggling into what lingered of his spicy male scent, and taking a long, luxuriant rest. She could all too easily imagine him lying next to her. She had a fair amount of practice imagining that. Except now, she had the benefit of much more information. She knew how his body fit against hers, solid in every place she was soft. She knew how his skin felt to the touch—weathered and sun-warmed atop his forearm, supple as kid on the inner side of his wrist.

She knew the taste of his kiss.

Oh, Rhys
.

With a sharp yank, Meredith pulled the stubborn sheet free and roused herself from her fantasy. She understood dreams, sometimes even reveled in them. She wasn’t jaded, like her father had suggested. But she knew where to draw the boundary between dreams and reality.

The familiar titter of the washerwoman’s laughter floated up from the courtyard. Meredith tied the dirty linens in a bundle and went to the window, calling to catch Betsy’s attention. She stuffed the heap of linen through the window, and Betsy swooped quick to catch it in her basket—a move that earned her appreciative calls from a few of the men nearby.

“Excellent aim, Mrs. Maddox!” Darryl waved to her from the stables. The hounds yipped and wrestled at his feet.

Meredith smiled in return, but didn’t linger to join the fun. Instead she left the window to hurry downstairs. She’d caught sight of Robbie Brown rolling into the courtyard with his wheelbarrow of peat for the fires. She’d need to assemble his payment in coin and bread. After that, she’d speak with Mrs. Ware about the day’s meals, depending on what sort of meat the Farrell boys brought in.

She had an inn to run and a village to support.

When she entered the public room, she found it near full already, despite the early hour. A few travelers were taking a light meal before continuing on their journey. Village men were meeting over coffee to gossip and discuss trade. Even Harry and Laurence were here, eating breakfast.

She stopped in her tracks. What were the Symmonds boys doing here? The two of them never saw this side of noon, unless they’d been up all night keeping watch for Gideon. And last night, she hadn’t even needed to chase them out at closing time. They’d gone home unusually peaceably, at the early hour of half-ten.

“Rough night, boys?” Hands propped on her hips, she approached their table.

Harry looked up from a plate laden with eggs, bacon, rolls and jam. “Suppose you could say that.” He exchanged glances with Larry, and the two began chuckling.

Their laughter was echoed from a few other tables. Meredith slowly pivoted, taking the measure of her clientele. Now that she noticed it, a fair number of these men never darkened her door before midday.

“What?” she asked sternly. “What is it?”

The laughter only grew.

“Rough night indeed, Mrs. Maddox,” Larry said around a mouthful of eggs. “But the rough morning … now that belongs to your friend Ashworth.”

Dread seeped through her limbs. “What have you done?” Her voice shook a little, and she firmed her jaw to compensate. “Harold and Laurence Symmonds, tell me this instant. What have you done to him?”

“Easy, Mrs. Maddox,” Skinner said from the next table over. He winked at her over his coffee. “We didn’t hurt the man none.”

Harry muttered, “Not this time.”

The room broke into laughter again, but Meredith didn’t wait to sort it out. With a hasty word to Mrs. Ware as she passed through the kitchen, she tore out the back door of the inn and made a straight path up the rocky slope—the most direct route to the ruins of Nethermoor. If Rhys had hired the ponies, he would have to lead them up the circuitous footpath. Perhaps she could beat him there and intercept whatever unpleasant surprise Harold, Laurence, and the others had planned for him. How long had it been since he’d left that morning? An hour, perhaps? She would have to hurry.

After twenty minutes of hard walking and scrambling over uneven ground, she reached Bell Tor and skirted the ancient stacks of granite. Despite the warming sunlight, she shivered as she neared the ruins of Nethermoor Hall. Just over this crest was the flat where Rhys was building his cottage. Panting for breath and clutching her side, she climbed up those last few steep, rocky yards …

And found heartbreak waiting for her on the other side.

A half-dozen dappled ponies roamed the shallow depression, grazing happily on sedge and gorse. Their unloaded burdens of straw were stacked neatly in a pile, ready to be mixed with earth. And the foundation of Rhys’s cottage—the stones he’d spent a week hauling from the surrounding area and painstakingly fitting together to form a level, unshakable plinth—completely destroyed. Scattered to all corners of the moor.

Her heart twisted in her chest. So hard, she forgot all about the cramp in her side.

Rhys was there, stripped down to his shirt and breeches, clearing the area. Methodically picking up the stones one by one, then sorting them into piles by size. Preparing to build it all again.

She watched him in silence for a few minutes. When she approached, she could tell he sensed her presence. He didn’t greet her, however. He refused to meet her eyes.

“Oh, Rhys. I’m …” Her voice caught. Really, what could she say? “I’m so sorry this happened. I know you put so much work into it.”

So much work, and so much heart.

He gave a diffident shrug as he kept right on working. “I was worried I’d made the thing too small, anyhow. Now I can enlarge it.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

“What good would it do to get angry?” With a low grunt, he plucked a small boulder from the ground.

“I don’t know if it would do any good, but it would certainly be natural.”

He tossed the stone aside easily, as though it were an apple core. It landed with a resounding thud. “I’ve wasted most of my life being angry. Never changes a damn thing. I just end up hurting everything around me.”

Meredith hurt
for
him. She watched as he continued clearing and sorting the stones. His motions were brutish, and barely controlled. It couldn’t be healthy for him, holding his emotions in like that. If his unleashed anger inflicted damage on everything around him, what damage was it doing to
him
, when he kept it inside?

“Rhys …”

With a rock balanced in either hand, he strode over to confront her. His eyes burned into hers. “Tell me one thing.”

She mutely nodded her acquiescence. As if she could refuse.

“Did you know they were planning this? Is that why you came to my room this morning, tried to keep me in bed?”