Twice Tempted by a Rogue (37 page)

“Can’t. Breathe.”

Rhys glared at him. “Burns, doesn’t it?”

Darryl’s head jerked in response.

“Good. I’m glad.” Rhys turned to Meredith. “I know that feeling, Merry.” He spoke low and only to her. “I’ve dangled at the brink of death more times than I can count. And that steep climb back to life, it hurts like hell. The pain of an injury is over in seconds. Everything that comes after is the pain of getting well.” He gave her a heartfelt look, full of apology. “I’d forgotten that, you see. Coming back to life … It hurts.”

She nodded, understanding him perfectly. His was a battered soul, and her love … it must have hit him like gin dashed over an open wound. But he was back here, ready to take more of it, no matter how it pained him inside. Because he was the bravest man on God’s earth.

And he was hers. All hers, at last. Her heart swelled with joy.

From the floor, Darryl moaned.

“Get out,” Rhys growled at him. “Get out, and begone. Unless you want to spend eternity haunting those ruins yourself, you will not let me find you.”

Still gasping for air, Darryl crawled toward the ladder on his belly. At a painfully slow rate, he disappeared from the loft. A dull thud suggested he’d taken the last few rungs the hard way. At last, they heard the door swing on its hinges.

When Meredith and Rhys were finally alone, he turned to her. His brow furrowed with concentration.

“I love you,” he said bluntly. “I have to say that, before anything else. Because it’s the most important thing. I love you.”

Dear, dear man. He spoke the words as though they were some sort of damning verdict on her life. “I’m very happy to hear it.”

He heaved a sigh of obvious relief. He ambled his way across the room to her, looking around the loft. “You’re hanging curtains?”

She nodded, sliding her scissors onto the windowsill. “The lace you bought in Bath.”

“Pretty.”

He stopped next to the window and surveyed the view over her shoulder. So close to her, but not touching yet. Her breathing came quick, and her heart began to pound. Every inch of her tingled with anticipation.

He said casually, “I think this would be an ideal nook for a dressing table. Little chair, a mirror.” His big hands outlined a square in the empty space. Oh, how she wanted those hands on her. “Your silver hairbrush set can go right here.”

“Right next to your shaving kit.”

His big hand reached for hers. She looked up into warm brown eyes brimming with emotion.

“Merry.”

Her heart swelled as he finally pulled her into his arms. Just where she wanted to be. He inclined his head until his whiskered chin grazed her temple. And they stood there together, just breathing. The moment was too intense for a kiss, too profound for words. The relief, the joy, the sheer rightness of it all.

She pressed her forehead to his frayed lapel and the wall of muscle beneath. “I knew you’d come back,” she whispered. “I just knew it.”

His hands framed her waist, and he pulled her back to look at him. “Thought you didn’t believe in fate or destiny.”

“I still don’t. But I believe in you.”

“Good.” His throat worked as he stared deep into her eyes. “Because fate be damned. God and the Devil and every one of their minions could convene right here and now to drag me off to my doom, and I’d fight my way through each and every one of them to stay with you. Not because it’s my destiny or my punishment or for lack of alternatives, but because I love you too much to be anywhere else. And if you refuse to marry me, I’ll remain here still. Come down to the inn every night for a meal and a pint, just to look at you and be near you. I …” He brushed the hair back from her face, cupping her cheek in his weathered hand. “Merry, I love you.”

“Oh, Rhys. I—” She hesitated, searching his eyes. “Can you bear it if …?”

He nodded. “Tell me.”

“I love you, too. I’ve loved you for so long.”

His eyes closed briefly, then opened again. “Still hurts a bit. But it’s getting better.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “As I recall, you still owe me an answer.”

“Remind me of the question.”

“Will you marry me?”

She pretended to think on it. “Yes.”

They smiled at one another. After all that time and all that discussion … yes, it really was that simple. Because it just felt right.

In a sudden burst of strength, he grasped her by the waist and tossed her into the air as if she weighed nothing. He caught her just under the hips, holding her fast to his chest and making her the taller of the two. Which gave her the immense joy of staring down at his wide, rugged smile. And then the very great pleasure of bending her head by slow, teasing degrees … until she finally kissed it away.

How she loved this man. Theirs would never be a soft, gentle kind of affection. They were both made of granite, chipped off this moor, and their love would be fierce and stubborn and even painful when they clashed. But also solid and enduring. A love to last for all time.

Finally setting her on her feet, he pressed his brow to hers. “Have I thanked you for saving me?”

Eyes still closed, she shook her head no.

“Well, then. I’ll be certain to do that. Every day, for the rest of our lives.” He kissed her brow. “I’m a broken man, Merry. I can’t lie to you. It may take some time before I’m truly whole, and even then, the pieces may never come together quite right. But I’m grateful to you. Grateful
for
you. And I love you, more than I have words or strength to express. I will never leave your side again.”

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. “Even if you tried, I wouldn’t let you go.”

Sweet promises, both. But they didn’t last long.

Rhys
did
leave her side, the very next morning. And Meredith gladly let him go, for the errand was one of some urgency. Rhys rode to Lydford and made a swift return, curate in tow. It wasn’t the first Sunday of the month, but it was
a
Sunday. Therefore, Rhys had decided it would be their wedding day. Meredith was not inclined to argue.

Their tiny village church hadn’t seen an Evening Prayer service in years, but it saw one that night. By candlelight, no less. Flickering tapers warmed each amber and red stained-glass window. The reading of the banns was followed by a marriage rite, with the entire population of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor in attendance. The groom wore immaculate black and white; the bride, a veil of Bath lace. Bellamy and Cora stood up as witnesses. George Lane looked on with pride.

And everyone—at least, everyone Cora could nudge into agreement—declared the scene to be the picture of romance.

Afterward they adjourned for dancing and merriment in the tavern. There, surrounded by increasingly tipsy well-wishers, Meredith laced her fingers behind her husband’s neck as they danced some approximation of a waltz.

“Lady Ashworth,” he said in a tone of mock formality, “you look uncommonly lovely tonight.” He pulled her close and nuzzled her ear. “God, it’s good to finally call you that.”

“It’s good to finally hear.” She smiled. She’d been waiting for those words a great deal longer than he had. Since her twelfth summer, truth be told. Now she was here in his arms. His wife.

“When can we leave?” His tongue grazed her earlobe. “I want to take you home.”

The word sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. The cottage wasn’t much of a home yet. No furniture or fixtures. The curtains still weren’t done. But she’d seen to the essentials that afternoon—a mattress, blankets, a few bottles of wine, and a healthy stack of peat for the fire. That was all they’d need tonight.

“Soon,” she said, pulling back. “But first … I want to talk about the inn.”

He concealed any irritation and gave her a patient smile. “What about the inn?”

“I had a chat with Gideon while you were away.”

His smile faded. “Oh, did you?”

“He wants an honest life now, a family. With Cora.”

“So I gathered.”

She looked to the bar, where the younger couple were working together to serve drinks. “They’re sweet together, aren’t they?”

“I suppose.” Rhys shrugged, as though to say a big, strong man like him couldn’t possibly know a thing about sweetness.

Meredith smiled. She knew very well he did, but she wouldn’t force him to admit it. “Take my word for it, then. They’re sweet. And my money says they’ll be married by Christmas. Gideon’s going to clear out your cellar and use that as a down payment on the Three Hounds.” At the slight wrinkling of Rhys’s forehead, she sped up her speech. “He and Cora will manage the place, under my supervision at first. We’ll pay them with increasing shares of the inn, until they own it outright. Please say you’ll agree.”

“I’ll agree to whatever you like, but …” His frown deepened. “Do you really mean to give up the inn?”

“Of course not. I really mean to sell it, at a profit.” Smiling, she brought her hand to his face, rubbing her thumb along his lower lip. “It’s what’s best for the village.”

“What about you?”

“You’re what’s best for me. Truly, Rhys. I’m ready to build a future with you.”

She pressed a light kiss to his lips, and when she moved to retreat, he caught her, making that light kiss something dark, passionate. Deeply arousing.

“I’m glad you’re parting with the inn,” he said at length. “Because I have a new project for you.”

“You mean Nethermoor Hall?”

“Yes. And I’m willing to bet you’re already full of clever ideas for it.”

She bit back a grin. She did have a few.

“I knew it. You’re the most resourceful woman in England.” He lifted his gaze, and a chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I’ll never forget that first night, when I stood in that door”—he tilted his head toward the entrance—“and watched you smash that bottle of claret over Harold Symmonds’s head.”

She laughed at the memory. “Fell like a stone, didn’t he?”

“I fell harder. Knew right then you were the only one for me.” He pulled her hand from his face, kissed her palm, then pressed it flat against his chest. “I know I don’t have to tell you, I’ve seen a lot of unpleasantness in my life. Suffered a good many wounds, and a great deal of pain. But through it all, this heart kept beating. Do you feel it now?”

“Yes.” His heartbeat thumped against her palm. Steady and strong, as ever.

“Beatings, battles, fights. No matter how bleak the circumstance, no matter how my soul despaired … this heart never once gave up.” His voice deepened, went thick with emotion. “I’ve a theory as to why. Do you want to hear it?”

She nodded.

“This heart is yours.”

Words failed her. Tears would have to do. Just a few tears now, then kisses all night long. Followed by a lifetime of passion and tender love. This was just the happy beginning.

“It’s yours,” he said. “It always will be.”

Read on for an excerpt from
Three Nights with a Scoundrel
by Tessa Dare
Published by Ballantine Books

London, October 1817

Lily awoke to a rough shake on her arm. A searing ball of light hovered before her face.

She winced, and the light quickly receded. With caution, she opened her eyes. Blinking furiously, Lily strained to make out the lamp-bearer’s identity. It was Holling, the housekeeper.

Good Lord
. She bolted upright in bed. Something dreadful had occurred. The servants would never shake her awake unless it was a matter of extreme urgency.

She pressed a hand to her throat. “What is it?”

Yellow lamplight illuminated an apologetic face. “Downstairs, my lady. You’re needed downstairs at once. Begging your pardon.”

With a nod of assent, Lily rose from bed. She shoved her toes into night-chilled slippers and accepted assistance in donning a violet silk wrap.

Her sense of dread only mounted as she descended the stairs. And the feeling was all too familiar.

Nearly five months had passed since the last time she’d been summoned downstairs in the dark. No one had needed to wake her then; she’d been unable to sleep for an insistent sense of foreboding. Her fears were confirmed when she opened the door to find gentlemen crowding her doorstep—three men with nothing in common save their membership in the Stud Club, an exclusive horse-breeding society her brother, Leo, had founded. They were the reclusive Duke of Morland, scarred war hero Rhys St. Maur, and Julian Bellamy—the London
ton
’s favorite hell-raiser and Leo’s closest friend.

One look at their grave faces that night, and there’d been no need for words. Lily had known instantly what they’d come to tell her.

Leo was dead.

At the age of eight-and-twenty, her twin brother was dead. Leo Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe. Young, handsome, wealthy, universally-admired—beaten to death in a Whitechapel alleyway, the victim of footpads.

The last time she’d been summoned down these stairs at night, her existence had been torn in half.

Lily’s knees buckled as she reached the foot of the staircase. She clutched the banister for support, then drew a shaky breath as a footman waved her toward the door.

Holling thrust her lamp out over the threshold. Gathering all her available bravery, Lily moved toward the door and peeked out.

As there was no one on the doorstep, her view went straight to the square. The first gray insinuation of daylight hovered over the manicured hedges and paths. The streets were still largely empty, but here and there she saw servants on their way to market.

At the housekeeper’s insistent gesturing, she looked down. There, on the pavement at the bottom of the steps, lodged a costermonger’s wheelbarrow. The wooden cart was heaped with carrots, turnips, vegetable marrows … and the body of an unconscious man.

She clutched the doorjamb.
Oh, no
.

It was Julian Bellamy.

Lily recognized the red cuff of his coat before she even saw his face. She clapped a palm to her mouth, smothering a cry of alarm.

There’d been one consolation in mourning Leo: the knowledge that she could never endure such a devastating loss again. He was her twin, her best friend from birth and, since their parents’ deaths, her only remaining close kin. She would never love anyone so dearly as she’d loved him. Once Leo had left this world … pain could not touch her now.

Or so she’d thought.

Staring down at Julian’s senseless form, it was hard to believe she’d ever felt this frantic. She sensed her throat emitting sounds—ugly, croaking sounds, she feared. But she couldn’t make herself stop. Even when Leo had died, Julian had been there to stand by her. Devilish rake he might be, he was her brother’s steadfast friend, and hers as well. Over the years, they’d come to think of him as family. If Julian left her …

She would truly be alone.

For the second time that morning, Holling gave her arm a shake. Lily looked to the housekeeper.

“He’s alive,” the older woman said. “Still breathing.”

Tears of relief rushed past Lily’s defenses. “Bring him in.”

The footmen scrambled to obey, lifting his sprawled body from the wheelbarrow and hefting it up the steps.

“To the kitchen.”

They all filed down the narrow corridor, headed for the rear of the house. Holling first with her lamp; then the footmen bearing Julian. Lily brought up the rear as they descended the short flight of steps to the kitchen.

Even at this early hour, the kitchen staff was hard at work. A toasty fire warmed the room, and a yeasty aroma filled the air. A scullery maid lifted floury hands from the breadboard and stepped back in alarm, making room for the footmen to pass.

They placed Julian by the hearth, propping his head on a sack of meal.

“Send for the doctor,” she said. When no one sprang into action, she repeated herself at the top of her lungs. “Doctor.
Now.”

With a hasty bow, one of the footmen hurried from the room.

Lily knelt at Julian’s side. Heavens, he was filthy. Dirt streaked his face, and the smell of the gutter clung to his clothes. She put a hand to his forehead, finding it clammy and cool to the touch. Perhaps he needed air. Her fingers flew to his cravat, and she tugged at it, unwinding the starched linen from his throat. A day’s growth of whiskers scraped her fingertips. She turned her cheek to his face, rejoicing at the warm puff of breath against her skin.

He suddenly convulsed, as if coughing.

She ceased her tussle with his cravat and pulled back to stare at him, not wanting to miss any word he might speak.

His eyes went in and out of focus as his gaze meandered over her form. “Hullo, Lily.”

Relief washed through her. “Julian. Are you well?”

He blinked several times, in rapid succession. Then again, slowly. Finally he said, “Violet always was your color.”

He slumped back, eyes closed.

Was he drunk? She leaned forward, sniffing cautiously at his exposed throat. No liquor. No gutter smells here, either. Just hints of starch and soap, mingled with the metallic, pungent odor of …

Oh, God
.

She grabbed his arm, shook it hard. “Julian. Julian, wake up.”

When he failed to respond, she withdrew her trembling hand and looked down at it. Just as she’d feared. Her fingers came away wet with blood.

Julian Bellamy had died sometime during the night.

That could be the only explanation. He’d perished, and there’d been some sort of divine mistake. Because this morning, he woke up in heaven. The sheer purity of it blanked his senses.

All was light. Fragrant. Lush. Clean.

The qualities of Paradise, as his boyhood self would have imagined it. The antithesis of everything he’d known from birth to the age of nine years: squalor, dirt, darkness, hunger.

Come to mention it, he still felt a faint pang of hunger.

Odd.

His bare arms glided between layers of crisp linen and quilted silk as he stretched, idly wondering if the dead felt hunger. And if so, what mead-and-manna banquet awaited him here?

“At last. There you are.” A feminine voice. Husky and warm, like honey. A
familiar
voice.

His pulse stuttered.

His pulse? Bloody hell. To the devil with hunger. Dead men definitely did not have pulses.

Julian shot up on one elbow and forced his bleary gaze to sharpen. “Lily? Surely that’s not you.”

The elegant oval of her face came into focus. Dark eyes, anchored by a straight, slim nose. The rosy curve of her mouth. “Of course it’s me.”

Holy God. He was not in heaven; he was damned. He was in a bed—presumably a bed somewhere in Harcliffe House. And Lady Lily Chatwick sat on the edge of the bed, entirely too close. Within arm’s length. And he knew this couldn’t be a dream, because he never dreamed of Lily. He’d
tried
to dream of her, on a few occasions when he was feeling especially maudlin. It had never worked. Even in sleep, he couldn’t fool himself. Every part of him, conscious and unconscious, knew he didn’t deserve this woman.

Damn. He scrambled to remember the events of the night previous. What the devil had he done? What had he caused
her
to do?

“Lily.” His tongue felt thick, felted. He swallowed with difficulty. “Tell me this isn’t your room.”

Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “This isn’t my room.”

He released the breath he’d been holding. Now that he flashed a quick glance about him, he could see that the bedchamber was decorated in masculine shades. Rich greens, dark blues.

A worse thought struck him. He sat up further. “Lily. Tell me this isn’t
his
room.”

Her smile faded, and sadness melted the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. “No. This isn’t Leo’s room.”

With a muttered curse of thanksgiving, he fell back against the pillows. It was one thing to disgrace his dead friend’s memory. Another thing entirely to do it in his dead friend’s own bed.

“It’s just a spare bedchamber. How is your arm?” she asked.

In answer, the limb gave a fierce throb. The wave of pain pushed memories to the fore. The dusty storehouse. The panicked crowd. The escaped bull, smashing him against the rail.

With his right hand, he touched the bandage tightly wound about his biceps.

“The doctor’s come and gone,” she said. “He seemed to think you’ll survive.”

“Blast.” He threw his wrist over his eyes. “How on earth did I get here?”

She clucked her tongue. “So dramatic. I should think this is a common occurrence for you, waking up naked in a strange bed.”

Naked?
Had she truly just said …?

Julian lifted the sheet and glanced downwards. Thank God. Though he was undressed to the waist, the seven buttons of his smallclothes winked up at him. And they were lying flat and obedient in a tame row. At the moment. If she kept hovering over him, they wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“Minx.” When she only laughed harder at her own joke, he lowered the sheet and chided her, “You are an unforgivable tease.”

“And you are an unmitigated ass.”

When he shifted onto his side, she laid a hand to his bare shoulder. Her touch was a brand against his skin.

“Lily …”

“No, I mean it. You know I don’t normally use such words.”

She never used such words at all. Oh, she often
thought
them, he knew. But she never said them. And the scoundrel in Julian was perversely delighted that he’d provoked her into speaking her mind. Lily had a lot of thoughts worth sharing, and all too often she kept them to herself.

She handed him a glass of barley water, and he accepted it gratefully.

“You are making an ass of yourself, Julian, and I don’t mean just this morning.” Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “But while we’re on the subject, let’s start with this morning.”

“Must we?” Tucking the sheets close to his chest—to guard her modesty, not his—Julian sat up in bed. He drank as she continued, downing the barley water in greedy gulps.

“Yes. Do you have any idea what a fright you gave me? A costermonger found you in the street before dawn. Lying in the gutter, bleeding.”

Ah, yes. The blood. That was what had done him in. Jagged shards of memory began to piece themselves together.

“Fortunately, Cook recognized you when the costermonger brought you by in his barrow, tumbled in amongst the turnips and celery root.” Her voice rose. “Really, Julian. Can you imagine?”