Twice Tempted by a Rogue (6 page)

“Rebuild?
Rebuild Nethermoor Hall? Whyever would you want to do that?” She knew what kind of childhood he’d endured in that house. Why would he wish to rebuild it? Not to mention, no matter how much he wished it, Gideon Myles and his associates would never allow such a thing to occur. “And how do you think you’ll accomplish the construction? The local men will never work for you.”

“They will if I pay them enough.”

She shook her head. “The older ones still hate your father. The younger ones, what few there are, have grown up hearing all manner of superstition and tales. They’ll be afraid of you.”

“Well, if I can’t find local labor, I’ll just have to bring in workers from Plymouth or Exeter, I suppose.”

“That will cost you dear.”

“I’ve some lands in the North I plan to sell. And I’ve lately come into some money. Not enough to restore Nethermoor Hall to full grandeur, but wisely invested it’ll put a house together and leave enough left over to live on.”

And if the investments weren’t wise and they failed, what then? He’d be bankrupt with no source of rents or income. He’d leave again. Somehow every possibility ended with him leaving again.

“You won’t need to do this anymore when you marry me,” he said, looking around the room. “Work, I mean. I’ll provide for you and your father both.”

At the mention of her father, she felt a sharp twist in her chest. Drat him, he was making this so difficult.

“But I like the work here,” she protested. “I’m proud of what I’ve done with this place, and I’ve plans to do more still.”

“You could do far more as the lady of the manor.”

“Rhys … you’re being so naïve.”

His eyebrows rose. “Me, accused of naïveté. I must say, I never thought that day would come. I’ve a mind to engrave the date on a plaque.”

“You’ve forgotten what life’s like out here. Right now it’s a pleasant summer’s morn, but you must recall how winter gets. It’s harsh, lonely, desolate. You can’t actually want to live here again. And we’ve learned to survive without a lord. Just go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why the devil not?” Meredith certainly would, if she were Rhys.

“Circumstances would only pull me back. It’s fate.”

With a low groan, she propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.

“You don’t believe me,” he said, leaning forward. “I know. But when a man treads the border between this world and the next as often as I have, he starts to see the hand of fate everywhere. Sometimes in bright flashes, other times subtler shades. It’s like discovering a whole new color, one most people just can’t see. But I see it.” He pulled her hands from her face. “When you look at me, your eyes shine with it. I’m telling you, this is meant to be.”

Her heart fluttered. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

“This.” He gestured at the breakfast laid out on the table between them. A few rolls, small earthenware crocks of butter and preserves. Two mugs of coffee and a dish of fresh cream. The plates were scattered randomly; crumbs dotted the checked tablecloth. The scene hardly looked like an omen of fate to her, but then—she thought she grasped his meaning. The warm light shone on them both with familiar intent, leaving them nowhere to hide their imperfections from each other. She hadn’t even pinned her hair properly this morning. To any casual observer, they would look like a couple having their thousandth breakfast together, instead of their first.

His warm gaze caught hers. “It just feels right, doesn’t it?”

It did. It did. It was the rightest thing she’d ever felt, and utterly terrifying.

“Don’t fight it,” he said. “Marry me.”

Don’t fight it?
But he wasn’t fighting fair. He’d been gone for fourteen years, and now he strolled in one morning making promises to fulfill all his responsibilities and never leave again? Asking her and the village to abandon their hard-won security and place their futures right back in Ashworth hands? He offered a dream, but he’d force her to give up her safe reality to grasp it.

She just couldn’t take that chance. Not on the basis of one almost-kiss and some invisible glimmer of “fate.”

She forced herself to say the words. “No, Rhys. I can’t marry you.”

His eyes flared, and his hand balled into a fist. For a moment, he almost looked angry. Strange, after he’d remained so cool and collected before the riled-up villagers. Here was a flash of the Rhys she remembered from all those years ago: wild, angry, untamed. Irresistible.

Just a few seconds later, he’d suppressed that hot flare of emotion. His jaw relaxed, and he smoothed the tablecloth with his palm.

Of all the reasons why he needed to leave Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, this was the most compelling. She couldn’t bear to see this place beat the spirit out of him forever.

“Well.” She stood on weakened legs. “You’ll have a long day ahead of you.”

“That I will, Mrs. Maddox.” He looked resigned as he rose from the table. “That I will.”

“Shall I have Darryl saddle your horse?”

“No, no. I’ll let him rest today.”

She frowned with confusion. “So … you mean to stay another night, then?”

“I mean to stay permanently.”

Flustered thoroughly now, she sat back down. “Did you not hear me, my lord? I’m sorry if I was unclear, but …” God, did she even have the strength to refuse him twice? Once had been difficult enough.

He smiled and headed for the door. “Don’t worry, Merry Lane, I heard you. I know you said you can’t marry me. But I also know you will. Just not quite yet.”

After Rhys disappeared upstairs, Meredith kept herself busy. It wasn’t difficult. There was always work to be done, and this morning, the more mindless the task, the better. She’d only just cleared the breakfast table when Mrs. Ware came in to start the day’s cookery. There were tablecloths to iron and pewter mugs to scrub. Tomorrow afternoon the mail coach came through, and depending on the weather and condition of the roads, sometimes the driver stopped at the Three Hounds to rest the horses and allow passengers to take refreshment.

Before the noontime rush, she took a moment to rest. She picked up one of the newspapers Gideon had brought in the night before and opened it, smoothing the creased paper against the bar counter. Ostensibly the papers were for the inn’s guests, but Meredith was the only one who read them. She read them all, every page. All those years of the war, she’d scoured them for any mention of Rhys. In the weeks following a battle, she would sometimes find an account of his regiment’s bravery or a list of casualties that mercifully did not include his name.

Today, it felt as though she should snap open the paper and find the headline
RHYS ST. MAUR RETURNED TO DEVONSHIRE
. Perhaps if she saw the words in print, she’d start to believe it was true. Though she doubted even the reporters of
The Times
could find a logical explanation for that scene over breakfast this morning. Perhaps the headline ought to read:
IMPOVERISHED LANDLADY REFUSES LORD’S OFFER OF MARRIAGE
.

Underneath that, in smaller letters,
BOTH COMMITTED TO BEDLAM
.

“Left your cask of Madeira in the storeroom.” Gideon Myles appeared. He plunked a ceramic figurine on the counter. “And this washed up in a cove near Plymouth.”

“Did it now?” Meredith took the china shepherdess in her hand and examined it in the light. It was finely made and carefully painted. Exquisite.

Fragile.

“Astonishing,” she said, “that such a thing would survive being tossed about the waves and thrown up against a rocky shoreline.”

“Is it?” Gideon said innocently, his mouth tipping in a grin. The man was devilish handsome, and he knew it. Not only knew it, but made use of it. As an intermediary between Devonshire’s coastal smugglers and the markets of Bristol, London, and beyond, Gideon used that roguish charm to line his pockets, warm his nights, and generally have an ungodly amount of fun.

“Rather a miracle,” she said.

“Thought she would look well in one of your redecorated rooms. Add a touch of class, you know.”

“That she will.” She smiled down at the shepherdess. “Very thoughtful of you, Gideon. I’m grateful.”

His brow quirked. “How grateful?”

Impossible flirt
. “Pint-of-ale grateful.”

“Damn. Was hoping for straight-to-bed grateful. But I won’t turn down the drink. Next time, I’ll bring a string of bloody emeralds.”

“I don’t expect those wash up in coves too often,” she said, sliding him a tankard of ale.

He gave her a devious smile. “Just have to know where to look.” He threw back half his ale in one draught, and when he lowered the drink, his demeanor had changed. He stacked his arms on the bar. “What’s Ashworth doing back in Devonshire?”

“How should I know?”

He stared at her, silently letting her know he didn’t believe her ignorance for one moment.

Meredith shrugged. “Well, he’s inherited the lands now, hasn’t he? Only natural that he’d stop by to have a look at them.” With a careful air of indifference, she added, “Perhaps he wants to start fulfilling his role as Lord Ashworth.”

Gideon coughed. “Why would he want to do that? I might just as soon take up the old vicar’s legacy.”

He forced a chuckle, but Meredith caught the wounded glint in his eyes. Gideon Myles had been orphaned as a small boy when his parents fell victim to a fever. The vicar had taken him in, sheltered and educated him for many years. But when the living dried up, the clergyman left the village and abandoned Gideon to fend for himself at the age of thirteen.

“Shouldn’t you like to be a vicar?” she asked. He laughed again, and she protested, “No, I mean it. I think you’d be better suited to the clergy than you credit. For all you cultivate that roguish image, you’ve a good heart beneath.” She laid a fingertip on the ceramic lamb kneeling at his mistress’s feet. “And a quick mind, as well. You’re far too intelligent to be engaging in petty crime as a profession.”

He looked away, and she thought she caught a blush rising on his throat. “Options are limited in these parts, aren’t they?” He shook his head. “No, it’s a devil’s life for me. But lately I’m becoming far too acquainted with celibacy.”

She laughed off his suggestive glance, knowing the words were just idle flirtation. As she’d told Rhys, Gideon was a business associate and a friend. Nothing more. Granted, he was a strapping man with a natural drive, and he probably wouldn’t refuse an invitation to her bed. But she liked him too much to risk ruining things for a night or two of pleasure. That’s why the few lovers she’d taken since Maddox died were all travelers passing through. No risk of emotional attachment.

Looking back, maybe that’s why she’d always been so drawn to Rhys. He was always in motion—running, riding, brawling, fighting his way across the Continent. He was a man who’d never allow anything to hold him in one place.

Except now he was back, vowing to do just that—stay in one place.

“He said he wants to rebuild Nethermoor Hall.” The words slipped out.

With a violent curse, Gideon plunked down his tankard. “Why the devil would he want to do that? It’s worthless moorland up there.”

“I know it, but Rhys said …” Her voice trailed off as she realized her slip.

His eyes flashed. “Oh,
Rhys
said? On cozy terms with him, are you?”

“Not like that,” she replied tartly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Damn right it is my business.” He lowered his voice. “My
business
. My livelihood. I can’t afford his presence here, Meredith. Neither can you. Ashworth’s already put me a day behind schedule. If he stays in the neighborhood, my trade is finished. If I can’t keep up my trade, you won’t have cheap stores for this inn. If the inn suffers, the whole village suffers. That man is nothing but trouble for Buckleigh-in-the-Moor.”

“I know, I know.” She frowned, scrubbing at a water spot on the countertop that had been there for years and wasn’t likely to go away anytime soon. “And I tried to tell him as much, but …”