Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(18)

Mistaking her silence for genuine concern, Gideon stayed her wrist with his hand. “Don’t you worry. He won’t be in the village long. One way or another, I’ll see to it.”

She nodded, knowing he would. And his protective touch was kind, she supposed, but it did nothing for her. Not like Rhys’s touch last night. She still felt that light caress tingling on her cheek.

It feels right, doesn’t it?

She shook herself.

Gideon said, “If no man in the neighborhood will work for him, cart for him, or sell to him, he’ll be forced to give up soon enough. And if he doesn’t … well, there are other ways of convincing him.”

“Like those torches this morning?”

Cursing, he cocked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I meant ways that involve real men and real weapons. Not a pair of inbred apes and a simpleton stable boy with his water pail.”

She pointedly ignored his mention of violence and weapons. “Speaking of Darryl, I’d best call him and Father to their noon meal.”

“Can you call all the way to Nethermoor, then? Always knew you were a clear-spoken woman, but that would astonish even me.”

“What do you mean? Darryl’s not up at Nethermoor. I just saw him, not ten minutes ago.”

“Not Darryl. Your father.” He raised an eyebrow.

“My father? Up at Nethermoor? What’s he doing up there?”

Gideon shrugged and tipped his ale. “Better ask him that, hadn’t you? Or your friend Rhys. It’s the two of them up there together. My man just brought me the news.”

Meredith put aside her rag.

“Not that I mind. The Symmonds boys are loading the ponies as we speak. We’ll take them out toward Two Oaks and then around the long way. Ashworth and your father can stay out there all day, so far as I’m concerned.”

“Not if I have something to say about it.” She jerked at her apron strings, her fingers clumsy with nerves. Her father should not be out on the moor in the midday sun. That sort of exertion could endanger his health.

Gideon was right. Rhys’s presence here was nothing but trouble for them all. She would go tell Rhys St. Maur to let her father be, pack up all his silly proposals, and leave the village today. And then she would somehow excise him from her imagination and get on with her life.

He had to move on, and so did she.

Chapter Five

Straining under the midday sun, Rhys hefted a chunk of lichen-crusted moorstone from its bed of gorse. A bead of sweat trickled down his bare back as he carried the rock up the sloping grade, then tossed it to the ground with a grunt, nudging it into place with his boot. “Do you think it’s big enough?” he asked, wiping his brow and squinting at the ground. The stones formed almost three sides of a rectangle now. A few more hours’ work, and he’d have a completed outline for the foundation. “Maybe I ought to make it wider.”

“It’s already near as big as the inn,” George Lane said. “Thought this was meant to be a cottage.”

“It is.” The finest damn cottage ever built.

And once Meredith saw it, she’d know he was serious about being here to stay. About marrying her. Not that he could claim to be surprised by her initial reluctance. As a suitor, he had little to recommend him aside from a bit of money in the bank. He surely wouldn’t convince her on the basis of his fine looks and pretty manners. But once she saw the proof of his commitment to rebuilding the Hall and the village, she’d change her mind. She was a clever woman, and she understood when a situation would work out to her benefit. She’d married Old Maddox, after all, and Rhys would never believe that had been a love match.

“Where do you plan to put the door?” Lane asked, limping his way around the nearly finished rectangle.

“Over there.” Rhys jerked his head as he hefted another stone. “Facing northeast.”

“Away from the ruins, then? Well, I don’t blame you for keeping that sight at your back.”

“Away from the wind,” Rhys countered.

The old man’s eyebrows rose. “As you say.”

Rhys chucked his stone in line with the others. He knew superstitions ran deep as granite here on Dartmoor, but surely George Lane didn’t believe any of Darryl Tewkes’s absurd ghost stories? “I mean it,” he said, wiping his brow. “That flat there”—he pointed to a level area nearby—“is the most logical place for new stables. The stable master’s cottage ought to face it, don’t you think? And I’m guessing you’d rather be upwind.”

“Stables?” Leaning on his crutch, Lane slid the soft felt cap from his head and twisted it between his old, scarred hands. “You mean to rebuild the stables?”

“I mean to rebuild it all,” Rhys told him evenly. “Starting with the stables. I’m a member of a club, you see. It’s called the Stud Club. Membership includes breeding rights to a stallion called Osiris.”

“Osiris.” The old man’s hands began to shake. “The Osiris, the great thoroughbred champion?”

“So you’ve heard of him.”

“Heard of him?” Lane laughed. “In his prime, the sporting papers were filled with nothing but talk of that stallion. I heard he’d been sold to a lord, though, some time back.” He scratched the back of his neck. “What was his name …?”