Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(13)

Darryl shook his head no.

“Neither did I, damn it. And yet I’m still here. I’m bloody well indestructible. Add to that, I’m Rhys St. Maur, your legendary living phantom, and you sure as hell can’t scare me off my own cursed estate.”

Silence.

Rhys had spoken all the words he intended to say. No one seemed to know what to do next. Harold, Laurence, Gideon Myles, Darryl … they all just stood there, gawping at Rhys, then gawping at one another. Band of bloody fools.

A yeast roll bounced off of Harold Symmonds’s forehead, breaking the collective trance.

“Go home.” Meredith was suddenly next to him, still holding her basket of bread with both hands. Her voice rang through the courtyard. “Go home, all of you.”

One by one, the villagers turned and left. Myles disappeared back into the stables, presumably to resume keeping watch over his precious wagon. It struck Rhys that the man was inordinately protective of a load of “dry goods.”

He released his breath slowly, feeling the tension in his muscles dissipate as well.

“Are you all right?” She looked him over from crown to boots. “I’m so sorry for that scene.”

He wrung the water from his shirtfront, standing back so as not to drip on her bread. “Don’t be. Wasn’t your fault. And I needed a bath.”

He looked up to find her frozen in place, her eyes riveted to his sodden shoulders and chest. He couldn’t quite name the look in her eyes, but he suspected it was revulsion. With his shirt clinging to his body and his hair matted to his head—not to mention the fact that he’d just been met by a torch-bearing mob—he must have the look of a gothic monster.

“A bath,” she said suddenly, shaking herself to life again. “Yes, of course. I’ll have water drawn and heated.”

“No, don’t. The pump will do well enough for me.”

“As you please, then.” She turned to leave.

He caught her arm. “I … Merry, I’m sorry to bring you so much trouble. I’ll make it up to you.”

He’d make it up to all of them. To be sure, some of the residents of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor were right fools, and he’d never win any popularity contests here. But the majority of the villagers had to be decent, honest souls, and they had good reason to view him with suspicion. They’d all come around in time.

Meredith bit her lip. Her cheek dimpled with a fetching, lopsided smile. “You bring all sorts of trouble, Rhys St. Maur, and you always have done. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of Harold and Laurence and the others.”

“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.”