Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(11)

Damn, his whole body was churning with awakened hunger.

“You’re still here,” she said. “Thought perhaps you’d left.”

“I did. And then I came back.”

“I don’t know how this inn got its name,” she said, watching the dogs nip the tassel of his boot. “Maddox only ever kept two hounds. When he was drunk, he used to tell smart-mouthed travelers the third hound was in the pie.” She spared him a fleeting glance before calling past him into the stables. “Father, I’ve told you, leave that work to Darryl. You’re not supposed to be straining your heart.”

“I’m brushing down the finest gelding in Devonshire. It’s a pleasure, not a strain. And Darryl’s gone to fetch water.”

Rhys heard her release a frustrated sigh. Her brow creased with concern. “Father, you can’t—”

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.