Twice Tempted by a Rogue (4 page)

Rhys laid a hand to her shoulder and drew her away from the door. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t tell a man what he can’t do. He’ll only be more determined to prove you wrong.”

Her face couldn’t decide what expression to take. Her brow was more than a mite annoyed with his interference, and her cheeks were turning an embarrassed pink. But her lips twitched at the corners as though she might cry, and her eyes …

Her eyes were just beautiful. They made him too stupid to hold his next thought. If it hadn’t been for the mountain of bread between them, he would have embraced her then and there.

Embraced her, of all things. What an idea. Where were these fancies coming from? Meredith Maddox was a beautiful woman, and there was no denying that he craved her body more than he craved a peaceful night’s sleep. Any man with a pulse would feel the same. But this wasn’t just lust. He’d never experienced such longing simply to take a woman in his arms and keep her there. He’d wanted to kiss her last night, and he’d never been much for kissing at all. It smacked of romance and innocence and all those other things that had nothing to do with him. His past encounters with women had borne a remarkable resemblance to his fights—impulsive, brutish, and never very satisfying.

What he wanted with Meredith was different. This strong, self-sufficient woman had awakened a tender impulse inside him. He was responsible for the state of her life. For the state of this village, in fact. It was his fault that it was barely dawn, and she’d already been working hard for hours. His fault that she had to play caretaker to an invalid father by day and constable to a band of unruly drunkards by night. Every hobbled step her father took, each tiny callus on her hand, every spot of blood on her dainty white tablecloth … all of it was his own damn fault.

“There was a doctor last year, passing through,” she said softly, gazing unfocused at the bread. “He examined Father in exchange for free room and board. His heart’s weak, the man said. If he doesn’t slow down …”

Rhys gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “I’ve known your father almost as long as you have, Merry. Horsemanship is in his blood. It
is
his life. He’d rather die than slow down.”

“I know. I know it, but …” She looked up at him and gave a one-shouldered shrug, as though he’d understand without any words.

And he did. Suddenly, Rhys understood
everything
. The reason he’d survived the past fourteen years and finally made his way back to this village. The reason he couldn’t leave it now. The way to redeem his whole wasted life.

It all made perfect, unquestionable sense.

“Isn’t it Sunday?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied in a bewildered tone.

He looked about the courtyard. “Why aren’t the people in church? Where’s the vicar?”

“There’s no vicar anymore. He left twelve years ago, when your father ceased paying his living. A curate comes out once a month from Lydford to hold services.”

He swore softly. This made things a touch more difficult.

She gave him a cheeky smile. “What is it? Feel the need to confess your sins?”

“Bloody hell. That would take years.” And he didn’t particularly want forgiveness. No, he just wanted to make things right. “Confession isn’t required, is it?”

“Required for what?”

“Marriage.”

A roll tumbled from her basket, and the hounds scrabbled over it at their feet.

When she spoke, her voice was strangely brittle. “You’re engaged to be married?”

“Not yet. I will be, soon.” Before breakfast, he hoped. God, he was hungry. If she lost another roll from that basket, it would never reach the hounds.

“And you intend to marry your bride
here?
In Buckleigh-in-the-Moor?”

“I know the village church isn’t the grandest, but it’ll do. Wouldn’t make sense to go elsewhere, now would it? Travel would be hard on your father.”

She gave him a look of utter bemusement. “You wish to be married here. In this remote village. Simply so my father can be a guest at your wedding.”

“Well, I thought you’d want him there.”

“My lord, why on earth would I care if my father attends your wedding?”

The corners of Rhys’s mouth twitched with amusement. Hell, he suspected he was close to grinning, and he didn’t grin. Ever. But he was rather looking forward to learning how it felt.

Awareness sharpened her gaze. “Oh no,” she said.

Oh, no?

Oh no, indeed. That wasn’t the reaction he wanted. This would all be much easier if she’d simply accept the rightness of it. The inevitability.

But it wasn’t him she’d focused on. Her gaze trained on a spot somewhere behind his left shoulder. “Here comes your welcoming committee.”

He turned around. Coming toward him were the two brawling apes from last night—Bull and Beak to him; he couldn’t remember their real names—surrounded by a dozen other men. Rhys recognized some of them from the inn yesterday, but other faces were new.

To a one, they all carried flaming torches.

“Ashworth,” Bull said, “we’ve come to escort you out of the village. For good.”

Inside the stables, Rhys could hear the ponies growing restless and uneasy. He was uneasy, too. He couldn’t abide open flames this close to a horse barn. But the band of fools holding the torches … they inspired nothing in him but derision.

“Harold and Laurence Symmonds, what the devil are you doing with torches?” Meredith asked. “It’s full daylight, you idiots.”

“Go inside to your father,” Rhys murmured to Meredith. “Make certain he’s safe. I’ll handle this.”

She disappeared into the stables.

Rhys stepped toward the center of the courtyard. “Very well. You’ve got my attention. Now say what it is you mean to say.”

Harold Symmonds spat in the dirt. “The Ashworths were a scourge on this village. Fire burned Nethermoor Hall to the ground fourteen years ago and drove your folk from the moors forever. You should have stayed away, too. Now we’re here with these torches to show you, fire will run you off the moor again.”

“Ah,” Rhys said, scratching his neck. “And yet I seem to be standing in place.”

A gunshot cracked through the air.

Rhys wheeled around, searching for its source. He didn’t have to search hard. Gideon Myles stood in the doorway of the stables, smoking pistol in hand.

“You peat-for-brains idiots. I’ve a wagonload of”—he threw a glance at Rhys—“of dry goods in this barn, and I’ll put a lead ball in each of you before I’ll allow you to burn it down around my ears.”

The mob was abashed.

“It was all his idea.” Laurence jabbed a thumb toward his companion.

“It was not, you lying cur!”

Here they went again.

Laurence made a sweeping gesture with his torch, sending men leaping backward to avoid being singed. The two faced off, circling one another in the middle of the courtyard. Their band of followers, who’d clearly come on this errand for its amusement value, seemed happy enough to attend another fisticuffs in lieu of a lynching.

This time, Rhys was not going to stand back and watch. He stepped between the two men and grabbed each of them by the shirtfront. He grimaced as the torches’ greasy smoke assailed his nostrils. One flex of his arms, and he could bash their skulls together and put an end to the whole scene. But he couldn’t keep addressing every problem with violence. He didn’t want to live angry anymore. “All right,” he said, easing his grip. “That’ll be enough.”

“Fire! Fire!”

The panicked shout rose up behind him. Before Rhys could register its origin, a wave of ice-cold water sloshed over his head, dousing him to the skin. The shock of it froze him in place for a moment. An icy rivulet crawled down his back, and he shivered.

“I’m sorry,” a meek voice behind him said. Rhys recognized it as belonging to Darryl Tewkes. He turned around, and there the youth was, twitchy eye and all.

“So sorry,” he stammered again. “I was aiming for the torches, you know.”

With a gruff sigh, Rhys shook himself. Water droplets flew everywhere. He took the fizzling torches from the two men, turned them wrong-end-up, and stubbed them in the dirt.

“Listen up, every one of you.” The sound of gunfire had drawn gawkers, and had the whole village listening now. Damn it, he hated making speeches. He tried to keep his voice even. “You can bring your torches and your guns and your”—he rolled his eyes and flapped a wet sleeve at Darryl—“pails of cold water, and whatever else you please. You can’t intimidate me. Fire, gunshots, drowning … I’ve been through each, and I’ve survived them all.”

He stared down Harold and Laurence. “You fancy yourselves good in a fight? I fought for eleven years with the Fifty-second, the most decorated regiment in the British Army. Light infantry foot guards, the first line to attack in any battle. Fought my way through Portugal, Spain, France, Belgium. At Waterloo alone, I personally gutted seven members of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. And those are just the ones I killed up close.”

Calmly, he turned to Gideon Myles. “You want to play with guns? I can do that, too. Rifle, musket, pistol … take your pick. I can clean, assemble, and load any one of them in under a minute. I don’t waste black powder, and my aim is true.”

And since he had the town’s ear, he went on, “I’m also impervious to idiocy, I’ll have you all know. A couple of Portuguese peasants once found me bleeding in a field, shot through the shoulder in a skirmish. Dragged me back to their henhouse and kept me there for the better part of a week, just sticking a poker between the slats every so often to jab me in the side and judge if I was dead yet.” He turned to Darryl. “You there, with the bucket. Do you know how to say ‘water’ in Portuguese?”

Darryl shook his head no.

“Neither did I, damn it. And yet I’m still here. I’m bloody well indestructible. Add to that, I’m Rhys St. Maur, your legendary living phantom, and you sure as hell can’t scare me off my own cursed estate.”

Silence.

Rhys had spoken all the words he intended to say. No one seemed to know what to do next. Harold, Laurence, Gideon Myles, Darryl … they all just stood there, gawping at Rhys, then gawping at one another. Band of bloody fools.

A yeast roll bounced off of Harold Symmonds’s forehead, breaking the collective trance.

“Go home.” Meredith was suddenly next to him, still holding her basket of bread with both hands. Her voice rang through the courtyard. “Go home, all of you.”

One by one, the villagers turned and left. Myles disappeared back into the stables, presumably to resume keeping watch over his precious wagon. It struck Rhys that the man was inordinately protective of a load of “dry goods.”

He released his breath slowly, feeling the tension in his muscles dissipate as well.

“Are you all right?” She looked him over from crown to boots. “I’m so sorry for that scene.”

He wrung the water from his shirtfront, standing back so as not to drip on her bread. “Don’t be. Wasn’t your fault. And I needed a bath.”

He looked up to find her frozen in place, her eyes riveted to his sodden shoulders and chest. He couldn’t quite name the look in her eyes, but he suspected it was revulsion. With his shirt clinging to his body and his hair matted to his head—not to mention the fact that he’d just been met by a torch-bearing mob—he must have the look of a gothic monster.

“A bath,” she said suddenly, shaking herself to life again. “Yes, of course. I’ll have water drawn and heated.”

“No, don’t. The pump will do well enough for me.”

“As you please, then.” She turned to leave.

He caught her arm. “I … Merry, I’m sorry to bring you so much trouble. I’ll make it up to you.”

He’d make it up to all of them. To be sure, some of the residents of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor were right fools, and he’d never win any popularity contests here. But the majority of the villagers had to be decent, honest souls, and they had good reason to view him with suspicion. They’d all come around in time.

Meredith bit her lip. Her cheek dimpled with a fetching, lopsided smile. “You bring all sorts of trouble, Rhys St. Maur, and you always have done. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of Harold and Laurence and the others.”