Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(10)

It was full morning by the time he descended into the small valley that cradled Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. Sunlight chased the mist into dark hollows and nooks. Considering the harshness of the surrounding terrain, this truly was a well-favored spot. A brisk stream had carved this gorge over millennia, and aside from the ready water source, the valley offered some protection from the brutal Dartmoor winds. The village even claimed a few dozen trees to its name, and they grew reasonably straight—an unusual occurrence on the windswept moors.

As he reunited with the main road and entered the village proper, however, Rhys noticed what he hadn’t been able to see last night. Very little had changed in this village. Too little had changed, as a matter of fact. There were no new buildings. Neglected cottages had fallen into disrepair. Just as Meredith had told him, the village had not prospered in the Ashworths’ absence. A thorn of guilt pricked him deep inside.

He turned toward the inn. Like most buildings in town, its foundations were stone, but its walls were fashioned from cob, a cured mixture of earth and straw. Slate shingles gave it a sounder roof than the usual thatch. With a gleaming coat of fresh limewash and green-painted shutters, the inn was by far the best-kept structure in the town, and the largest. Even at this early hour, the courtyard buzzed with activity. It was clear to Rhys that the Three Hounds was not only the physical center of the village, but its social and commercial center as well. And little Merry Lane now managed it all. Remarkable.

In the courtyard, he dismounted and walked his gelding toward the stables. A hunched figure rushed to meet him, hobbling with the aid of a wooden crutch.

“Lord Ashworth! By God, it is you. Merry told me you’d come back, but I could hardly believe her.” The old man leaned on his crutch and tipped his hat, revealing a flash of silver hair beneath.

“Mr. Lane,” Rhys said, catching his breath. “It’s … it’s good to see you.”

Only it wasn’t. It was hell to see George Lane as he was now—bent, aged, crippled and scarred. In Rhys’s memory, he’d remained a man in his prime of life, an expert horseman gifted with an even temper and a steady hand. The Nethermoor stables had been Rhys’s refuge in his youth, and Lane had always been kind to him. When fire broke out in the stables that night, it was George Lane who dragged Rhys’s barely conscious form from the blaze. Once Rhys was safe, the stable master worked valiantly to save the horses. He succeeded in a few cases, but failed in most. During his last rescue attempt, a burning rafter had fallen on his leg.

Rhys had been sent to relations in Yorkshire immediately following the fire, and in the years since he’d never so much as written to inquire after his old friend’s condition. Probably because he’d suspected, rightly, that his friend’s condition would be just this. He was maimed for life.

That little thorn of guilt was swiftly growing tendrils and vines, twining his innards in a stranglehold.

“I’ll take the horse in.” Smiling, the old man balanced his crutch under one arm and reached for the reins with the other. “You go on in and have breakfast.”

Rhys reluctantly handed him the reins. He wished Lane would allow him to do the labor of unsaddling and grooming the horse, but he wouldn’t insist. He’d known many soldiers crippled in battle, and he’d learned to never second-guess their abilities.

Besides, George Lane couldn’t be too hampered by his injuries. He still kept an immaculate horse barn, from what Rhys could see as he followed him to the stable door.

“No need to come in,” Lane called to him, holding him off with an outstretched hand. “You know I’ll take excellent care of him.”

“I know,” Rhys said, wondering why the man didn’t seem to want him in his stables. Well, it could have something to do with the fact that his last stables had burned to the ground. If he were George Lane, Rhys wouldn’t trust himself in there either, come to think of it.

He propped his shoulder against the wide post of the doorway and spoke into the darkened interior. “It’s a large barn you’ve got here. Your daughter told me it’s mostly pack ponies you keep.”

“That’s right,” Lane replied. “I started breeding them a decade ago, from a few wild ponies I brought in off the moor. They’re well-trained now, and hardy. We rent them out as they’re needed, to local farmers and such.”

Rhys shook his head. What a waste of the man’s skill. “I wonder that you don’t keep posting horses.” To expedite travel, private and public coaches changed horses frequently. If the Three Hounds offered posting horses for hire and exchange, the inn could draw a great deal more business.

“I’d like to,” the man answered, “but I’ve no suitable breeding stock. Hard to gather that kind of coin, especially in a village where folk pay their debts with eggs more often than shillings.”

“I can imagine.” Rhys startled as something prodded the back of his knee. He wheeled to find a pair of long-eared hounds nosing at his boots. “Go on,” he told them, feinting a kick. “I’ve no scraps for you.”

Though oddly, he could have sworn he smelled fresh-baked bread.

“They’re just being friendly,” a feminine voice said. “It’s me they’re after.”

Meredith stood before him, both arms wrapped around a large woven basket. A bounty of yeast rolls peeked out from beneath a printed muslin cloth. Rhys’s stomach churned with awakened hunger.