Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(22)

“See? And there you go again.”

With a low growl of frustration, she turned to walk home.

“It wasn’t a complaint,” he called after her. “I rather liked it.”

So did she. So did she. And that was the most impossible thing of all.

Chapter Six

That evening, Rhys was halfway through his third plate of stew before he paused to draw breath. The day of heavy labor had left him ravenous and exhausted, but in a good way. An honest, productive way. With a pleasantly full belly, he sat back in his chair and watched Meredith as she went about the honest, productive business of running the inn. He shook his head. It wasn’t right. His own day’s labor was over, and she had hours yet to work. Had she even taken her own dinner?

Tonight she had a small group of travelers to tend—a middle-aged man and two younger ladies. Rhys supposed one was the man’s wife and the other his wife’s sister or cousin or some such. But just watching them interact, damned if Rhys could pick out which was which. The man didn’t favor either lady with particular attention or regard. Pathetic. What a waste of matrimony. Once Meredith was his wife, he’d make certain every man in the room knew she belonged to him.

For this evening, however, he was forced to content himself with watching his future wife tend her customers—serving them steaming plates of food and mugs of hot tea, chatting briefly with them about their journey. He hated that she’d been forced to work so hard, but she clearly took some pride and enjoyment in it.

She gave him a smile as she passed his table on her way back to the bar. A sweet, fleeting curve of her lips—and an accidental one, if her quick correction to seriousness was any indication.

As soon as Meredith left the travelers, down swooped Darryl Tewkes like a carrion bird. “Will you fine gentlefolk be staying long in the neighborhood?” He pulled up a stool to their table, crowding the ladies together. “We’ve all manner of fascinating sights here in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. I’d be glad to tour you around, in the morning.”

“Sights?” the man asked through a mouthful of beef. “What sights?”

“Why, it’s a mystical journey through time, you see.”

Rhys drowned his groan with a large swallow of ale. He listened to Darryl launch into his now-familiar speech: the tinners’ works, the cairns, the stone crosses, the tors …

“And best of all …” The gawky youth lowered his voice. “… the haunted ruins of Nethermoor Hall.”

“Haunted?” The two ladies echoed him in unison, then looked to one another wearing matching expressions of horrified glee.

They had to be sisters.

“Aye, the cursed house of Ashworth,” Darryl continued, leaning in close.

Rhys cleared his throat and pushed back, scraping his chair legs against the flagstones.

Darryl froze. The two young ladies went so pale, they might have been ghosts themselves. After a long moment, Darryl raised his head and gave Rhys a chagrined, twitchy look, as if asking permission to continue.

With a quirk of his neck, Rhys picked up his ale and pointedly moved on, ignoring them all. Let Darryl Tewkes tell his fantastic stories while he could. Soon the name Ashworth would mean something different to this village. Something other than a curse, or a macabre sightseeing attraction for travelers passing through.

He caught sight of Meredith at the bar. She was smiling and flirting with a hunched old man as she poured him a glass of gin. Her hair was falling loose from its braid again, and heavy locks dipped and swooped as she bent to retrieve a glass or stretched high to replace the bottle on its shelf.

God, she was a joy to watch. He’d grown accustomed to the idea of marriage very quickly, for a man who’d shuddered at the very notion for the whole of his adult life. That, more than anything, proved it must be destiny.

Even now, as he watched those dark strands working loose from her plait, his fingers ached to stroke her hair. He’d never taken time to do such a thing with a woman before. Perhaps he’d felt the lanky strands of a harlot’s hair slithering over his bare skin a time or two, but he’d never wanted to touch it on purpose.

He wanted to touch Meredith everywhere. Caress her brow with the backs of his knuckles—the callused pads of his fingertips were too rough. Curl his fingers in that hair, bury his face in it. Wake early on a Sabbath morning just to lie abed for hours and count every strand. A man could do that with his wife, couldn’t he? Sprawl out on the mattress, tuck her head against his chest, and stroke her hair for the sheer pleasure of it?

He’d just need to keep his shirt on.

He silently cursed himself for that mistake. What had he been thinking, letting her see his bare torso, all the scars he’d accumulated over the years? The look on her face as she asked him to put on a shirt … She must have been disgusted. He could tell by the guarded, wary glances she kept throwing him.

Meredith ducked behind the bar and lined up four glasses for filling. Rhys started toward her, eager to make a better impression tonight.

“Don’t even think it.”

Gideon Myles stepped in front of him. Rhys had to admit, the man had bollocks, to try that move with him.

“Leave her be. She’s not for you,” Myles said in a low voice. “There’s nothing in this village for you.”

“Oh, really? I’ve a title and a pile of legal papers that say otherwise.”