Twice Tempted by a Rogue (5 page)

“I’m certain you will.” She seemed to be taking care of the whole village. This inn, the travelers, her invalid father, the lives and fortunes of all these idiot men.

But who was taking care of
her?

He asked, “Have you eaten your own breakfast yet?”

She shook her head no.

“Let’s do this, then,” he said, backing away. “I’ll wash at the pump. You find us a morsel to eat. And then we’ll sit down to breakfast together and fix our wedding date.”

Chapter Four

As she laid the table for breakfast, Meredith refused even to think about Rhys’s words to her outside. Surely her ears had deceived her. There was no way in Creation that he meant to propose marriage to her after a single night at the Three Hounds. Her accommodations were nice, but not that nice.

She didn’t even have any ham or bacon. Until Mrs. Ware came in, there’d be no meat to serve except cold mutton pie. Just rolls and the whortleberry jam. And fresh cream and boiled eggs, and coffee made with cool spring water. Here was one consolation: The Three Hounds brewed the best coffee in England, or so a well-traveled guest had once proclaimed. Not that Meredith could know from experience. The farthest from home she’d ever been was Tavistock.

She’d just finished setting the table for two when Rhys entered the dining room, freshly bathed and dressed in a clean shirt and breeches. His hair was so short, it was already dry. She wanted to run her fingers over it, to see if it felt soft like goose down, or blunt, like clipped grass.

Lord, what was she thinking? That scene in the courtyard had made it perfectly clear that for Rhys’s own safety and the harmony of the village, she needed to feed him and send him on his way. Today. No hair-stroking would be involved.

“Won’t you be seated, my lord?” She tried for a breezy, casual tone. “Do you care for coffee?”

“I do. And please, just call me Rhys,” he said, settling onto a wooden stool. “Not enough people do.” He accepted the mug of coffee she handed him. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and the sensation was electric.

He took a fearless swallow of the scalding brew. “So,” he said, plunking the mug to the table, “when does this curate come into the village next? How soon can we be married?”

That electric tingle became a full-body shock.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I can. I’m quite frequently serious. Do you think I’d enter into marriage lightly?”

A startled bubble of laughter escaped her. “What else can I think, when you’ve just walked through the door yesterday?”

“It’s not as though I’m a stranger to you.” He sipped his coffee again. “You’ve known me since you were a girl.”

“Before last night, I hadn’t laid eyes on you in fourteen years.”

“Mm.” A little smile crooked his lips. “That’s what makes it destiny. We’re fated to wed.”

Meredith felt as though she’d been wedged into an old wine cask and set rolling down the rocky slope of Bell Tor. Rattled, disoriented. Just a bit drunk.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, I don’t want to marry you.” And she didn’t, not anymore. They needn’t discuss the scraps of foolscap she’d covered with “Meredith St. Maur, Lady Ashworth” when she was twelve. “I don’t want to marry at all.” As a widow, she owned this inn outright. That wouldn’t be the case if she took a husband.

He said calmly, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that fate doesn’t care what we want.”

“Well, I don’t believe in fate.” She hugged herself tighter still.

“Fate doesn’t care whether we believe in it, either. That’s the devil of it.” He chuckled. “Meredith. Lay down that shield you’re making with your arms and come sit with me.” When she hesitated, he lifted a brow. “It’s only breakfast.”

Was it?

As she sat down, he picked up a knife and buttered a roll. “You’d understand what I mean about fate if you’d lived through a war in my boots.”

The words settled like stones in her chest. “Was it true? Everything you said out there in the courtyard?”

“That and more.” He bit into the roll, taking two-thirds of it into his mouth in one bite.

“That’s …”
Heartbreaking
. “Remarkable, that you’ve survived.” She felt in that moment how close she’d come, so many times, to never seeing him again. And it made her want to take him upstairs and pin him to the bed that moment. Make love to him just once, before he went away again.

“Ah, well.” He swallowed. “Not so remarkable, really. Tried my best to leave this earth at every turn, but God and the Devil kept sending me back. Neither wanted me, I suppose.”

Maybe I just wanted you more
.

To avoid speaking the words aloud, she tore off an unladylike hunk of bread and chewed it noisily.

Pushing his coffee aside, Rhys reached into his coat pocket and withdrew two coins. He let them clatter to the table, where they lay like brass checkers on the blue-and-white gingham weave. On closer inspection, they weren’t like any coins she’d ever seen. She picked one up and held it to the light, twisting it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. The disc was irregular and crudely stamped. On one side a horse’s head stood out in relief; on the reverse, she found a horse’s tail.

She laughed at it. “Are these foreign money from your travels?”

“No. They’re tokens that indicate membership in an elite gentlemen’s society known as the Stud Club. Possession of one of those coins gives a man breeding rights to Osiris, England’s most valuable stallion. The club rules state the tokens can’t be bought or sold or given away. They can only be won or lost in a game of chance. There are only ten of them in the world, and at the moment I own two. Do you know how I came by them?”

She shook her head.

“Fate, pure and simple. Through no merit of my own, I was spared while other men—better men—fell.” He propped an elbow on the table and cast a glance through the window. The bright morning sun made him squint, wrinkling the scar tissue on his temple.

Taking one of the coins in his hand, he said, “This one belonged to an officer in my battalion. Major Frank Brentley, from York. He was a good man. His wife traveled with the company, and she mended my shirts for me. He never drank, but he was a gambler through and through, always dicing or playing cards. Story was, he’d won this token drawing blind at vingt-et-un. Said he was blessed with good luck all his life.”

He tapped the coin on the table. “Well, his good luck ended at Waterloo. We had the left flank of the line, and a
voltigeur
came out of nowhere. One moment Brentley was next to me, the next he was flattened by a rifle shot at close range, his gut ripped open at the seams.”

Swallowing with great care, Meredith put down the bit of bread she’d been holding.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s not proper breakfast conversation, I know. Anyhow, after I killed the French guardsman, I carried Brentley out of the action. Tried to make him comfortable. He pulled this token from his pocket. ‘Have to play me for it,’ he said. ‘That’s the rule. Heads or tails?’ Then he died, and the coin rolled out of his hand, and it was too smeared with blood to make out the stamp on either side. But I’d won the coin toss, hadn’t I? It’s the way my life goes. It’s like I’ve got a coin with ‘Life’ stamped on one side and ‘Death’ on the reverse, and no matter how many times I flip it into the air, it always comes up heads.”

He reached for the other token. “This one belonged to Leo Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe, the Stud Club’s founder. Another good man. Had it all—youth, wealth, good looks. Universally admired. Murdered in cold blood almost two months ago now, while walking the wrong part of Whitechapel. Beaten and robbed by footpads. Or so most believe. His killers were never caught.”

Meredith winced. “How dreadful. Was he a very close friend of yours?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve learned that lesson. I don’t make close friends.”

The words made her ache with empathy, but they also twanged her pride. He’d take a wife, but not a friend? The compliment implied by his proposal grew fainter still. Whatever reason he had for wanting to marry, it seemed to have more to do with these queer brass coins than it had to do with
her
.

With his massive, scarred hand he picked up a boiled egg and tapped it with the edge of his spoon until a web of tiny cracks covered the brown speckled surface. The measured caution in his movements entranced her. She couldn’t look away.

“I’m barren,” she blurted out. “Most likely. I was married for four years and never conceived.”

He frowned, peeling the shell from the egg. “Maddox was ancient. Doesn’t mean—”

“It wasn’t just him.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve had lovers since.”

His face shuttered. “Oh.”

What would he make of her now? She lifted her chin, refusing to feel shamed. “Have I succeeded in changing your mind? Perhaps not so fated to be, after all.”

“That wasn’t my meaning. I’m just sorry you’ve been lonely. I’m a bastard for staying away so long. The fact that you’re barren is of no importance. The last thing I want is a child. And you have my word, I’ll not rush you into … consummation.”

“What?” The breath left her lungs. She picked at the tablecloth. “Well, there went my prime inducement for accepting you.”

He looked puzzled. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“So when you offered a kiss last night … you weren’t just being generous?”

Her face heated as she nudged the saltcellar in his direction. “No, Rhys. Generosity had nothing to do with it. At all.”

He studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “If you say so.”

Why did he act so surprised? Surely he must be the recipient of a great deal of female attention, wherever he went. How could a woman not be attracted to him?

She watched as he picked up the naked, quivering egg he’d so painstakingly shelled. He halved it with a single snap of his jaws. The muscles in his cheek worked as he quickly downed the remainder. What an intriguing combination of tenderness and power he embodied. She imagined herself bared and white and trembling before him. So slowly, carefully revealed, and then … devoured. Just thinking of it made her a little bit afraid, and aroused beyond measure.

“If you don’t wish to … to get children,” she asked, “why on earth do you want to marry?” When men took an interest in her, bedding was usually foremost in their minds. And it wasn’t as though she had money or influence to offer. Not enough to sway a peer of the realm, at any rate.

“I’m going to take care of you.”

“I take care of myself. Quite capably.”

“Yes, you do. And you take care of your father, and this inn, and the whole blasted village too. Things that should be my responsibility, now that I’ve inherited. I can’t allow you to continue working so hard. I’m the lord of this place now, and I’m going to assume my role in the neighborhood.”

She laughed. “Did you not notice the mob that greeted you this morning? The villagers don’t want your help. They want you gone.”

He shook his head. “That wasn’t a mob, it was a band of fools.”

“They may be fools, but they’re big, strong fools. They could make real trouble for you, if they wished. And Gideon Myles is no simpleton.”

“Gideon Myles.” He snorted. “What is that man to you?”

Was that sudden edge in his voice jealousy? It shouldn’t thrill her, but it did. Straight down to her toes.

“He’s a business associate. And a friend.”
And a smuggler who won’t hesitate to use violence, if it suits his purpose
. She cleared her throat and continued, “Exactly what are your plans, Rhys?”

“I plan to marry you.”

That thrill shot through her again. “Other than that.”

“I plan to live up to my responsibilities as lord. Give the village some means of support. It will take time, but I’ll rebuild the estate.”