Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(3)

Rhys sensed every head in the room swiveling to face him. But he couldn’t have torn his gaze from the barmaid’s if he’d tried. Jesus, what a woman.

Between the travel and the damp, his body had been grousing at him all night. He wouldn’t have believed one more part of him could stiffen … but evidently it could. His riding breeches pulled snug across his groin. He’d gone hard enough to rival that brass candlestick. He hadn’t reacted so intensely to a woman since he’d been a randy youth. Perhaps not even then. His heart pounded. Blood surged through his veins, carrying orders to his every limb. He felt his whole body tightening, mustering strength, readying for a purpose. A very specific, very pleasurable purpose.

Damn. He felt alive.

Still holding his gaze, she said steadily, “Now put this place to rights.”

Rhys blinked. He didn’t recall this woman—he couldn’t possibly have forgotten her—but had she somehow recognized him? Was she calling him out for his gross negligence as lord? It would be a fair enough accusation. If there was anything that needed putting to rights in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, the responsibility should be his.

But as the men before him lurched into motion, scraping chairs and tables against the slate floor as they dragged the furniture back into place, Rhys realized her words hadn’t been meant for him. He was almost disappointed. He would have liked to put things to rights for her. Starting with that mussed dark hair.

With an impatient sweep of her fingers, she tucked a lock behind her ear. “Welcome to the Three Hounds,” she said. “Are you coming in, or aren’t you?”

Oh, he was coming in. He was most definitely coming in.

Rhys stepped forward and closed the door behind him.

Before he could acknowledge her welcome, the barmaid’s attention jerked away. “Not there, Skinner. Left side of the hearth.”

Skinner hurried to obey. All six burly feet of him.

“I’ve a horse outside,” Rhys said, once he had her attention again.

She nodded and summoned a twiggy youth from the bar. “Darryl, see to the gentleman’s horse.” To Rhys she said, “Will you drink whiskey, sir?”

“Just ale.”

“I’ve rabbit stew and mutton pie.”

His stomach rumbled. “I’d welcome both.”

“Have a seat, then.”

Rhys crossed to a table, lowered his weight onto the most sturdy-looking of the chairs, and accepted a tankard of ale from her hand.

He sipped at the cool ale, watching the barmaid and her band of reformed pugilists clear the room of debris. No wonder this place still did a brisk business. To Rhys’s recollection, old Maddox had never kept barmaids this fair, nor this fierce.

She kept stealing looks at him, even as she swept broken glass from the floor and rolled up the soiled linen tablecloth. There was an intriguing softness to her gaze.

That couldn’t be right. Perhaps she was looking at someone else. Under the guise of stretching, Rhys rotated his neck and turned an unhurried glance about the room.

No. There was no one else.

Strange.

Everything about the woman—her bearing, her voice, the reactions she inspired—declared her strength. But her eyes were telling him something else. They spoke of hopes and fears and vulnerability, and Rhys had no idea why she’d be revealing all that to a complete stranger, least of all him—but he knew one thing. Those looks she kept giving him contained more direct human contact than he’d known in years.

She was touching him. From across the room, with her hands otherwise occupied, she was touching him. He felt it deep inside.

Rhys sipped his ale and pondered the queer nature of fate. He was a steadfast believer in destiny. There was no other way to explain the fact that his heart still beat. In his eleven years in the light infantry, he’d spent battle after battle charging headlong into the bloody fray, eager to meet his death. Only to be cruelly disappointed, when fate spared him once again. He simply could not die. But for once, maybe for once his wretched good luck was about to throw him a true boon.

As she bent to sweep splintered wood from the corner, he observed the gentle curve of her neck, the loose strands of hair at her nape. He could spend a very pleasant minute winding that lock of hair about his finger, counting how many times it would wrap around. Five, he guessed, or maybe six.

When she straightened and their eyes met again, he raised his ale in a silent salute. She smiled shyly before looking away. Odd, because she didn’t seem the shy type.

As if to prove the point, she called across the room, “Laurence, get Harry back in the nook where he belongs. He’s bleeding on my flagstones, and I just scrubbed them yesterday.”

“Aye, Meredith.”

Meredith. The name pulled a thread in his mind, but the memory unraveled before Rhys could grasp it.

Laurence slid an arm under the moaning heap that was Harry Symmonds and shouldered the unconscious man to his feet.

“Don’t ‘Meredith’ me.” She shooed them toward a secluded alcove with her broom. “So long as you’re going to behave like boys, it’ll be Mrs. Maddox to you.”

The ale soured on Rhys’s tongue. Mrs. Maddox?

Ah, hell. This young, strong, beautiful woman was married to old Maddox? Not a barmaid after all, but the inn’s landlady. So much for fate throwing him a boon. He should have known better. There’d be nothing so beautiful for him on this earth.