Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(45)

To be truthful, Meredith was a mite annoyed with him, too. She was used to Gideon making eyes at her over his mug of tea. But Cora was younger, prettier, and decidedly more buxom. She supposed a man couldn’t look at her without his mouth watering, any more than he could stand dry-mouthed before a juicy, well-seasoned roast of beef.

Still, it hurt her pride a bit.

“The men will be brawling over her every night,” he said, a mulish set to his jaw. “If both Symmonds boys survive the week, I’ll be shocked.”

“They’ll be too worn out to brawl.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ll be working.”

He made a dismissive snort. “Not likely. While Ashworth’s still in the area, I can’t resume with the wagons. The men are on furlough.”

“They’ll be working for me. And for Lord Ashworth.”

“Meredith,” he growled. “Tell me you’re joking. And do it fast.”

“It’s the truth.” She told him of the building scheme, all the while enduring his cool glare—one that only grew colder by successive degrees, the more she explained the plan. By the time she finished, she would have sworn frost had crystallized on his eyelashes.

“You must understand,” she pleaded. “I’ve been saving money for years now, both thick and thin, and it would have taken me another decade to raise the funds Lord Ashworth can pull from his coat lining. I have to take this chance, can’t you see? This is my one opportunity to improve the inn.”

“He’s rebuilding Nethermoor Hall, for Christ’s sake. What’ll become of my goods up there?”

“He’s not rebuilding the Hall. He’s building a cottage nearby. During construction, we’ll be able to give you honest work, hauling legitimate supplies. As for the other … well, the man can only be in one place at a time. When they’re busy putting a rise on the inn, you’ll be able to come and go from the moors as you please.”

“With whom? You’ve stolen my workforce.”

“I know it will take some doing, but you’ll make it work. Gideon, you don’t have a choice. Lord Ashworth’s not going to leave easily. He’s determined to see that cottage built.” She twisted an apron string about her finger. “He’s building it for Father. I can’t say no.”

She wouldn’t tell him Rhys was also ostensibly building the cottage for her, as his bride. No point in mentioning it. To that much, she’d already said no.

“And once these little construction projects are finished? What then?”

“He’ll leave.” The truth of it sank in her gut and weighed heavily there. “I’m certain of it.”

“Good. Because it’s a certainty. The man’s been absent fourteen years. A whim brought him back, and the next fickle breeze will chase him off again. I just hope your building’s raised before it happens.”

“It will be,” she said, shifting defensively. “With the amount of money he’s spending, I don’t know that I’d call it a whim.”

“He’s an aristocrat. Their whims may be expensive, but they’re whims just the same.”

Sniffing, she reached for his plate, stacking the silver and mug atop it. He wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t been telling herself since the night Rhys walked into this bar. But he said it very convincingly, and it was only just now she’d let herself realize how very much she wished they were both wrong.

Gideon leaned on the bar. He spoke with quiet intensity. “There are two kinds of people, Meredith. Ones who are made to stay in one place, and ones who aren’t. We’re the first kind, you and me. God knows, we could have left this village in our dust and gone on to bigger things, better things. But we didn’t, either one of us. Because we care about this godforsaken place, even if it never gave a damn for us. We’ll cling to the breast that weaned us, trying to wring milk from a granite teat, and don’t try to tell us it’s futile, because we already know. But we’re here.”

She swallowed hard.

“As for Ashworth …” He made a gruff sound in his throat. “He’s the other kind, Merry. The leaving kind. You’d do well to remember it.” He looked over his shoulder at the tavern, glancing from roofbeams to hearth. “You’ve poured years into this place. Work, sweat, blood, tears. What would you do to protect it?”

“Anything.” She didn’t even think the word, just spoke it. “Anything in my power.”

“Aye,” he said ominously, “I know you would. And you know I feel the same about my trade. To protect my livelihood, I’d do anything in my power. The only difference between us is, I travel armed.”

The door creaked open.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Gideon Myles. And his much-touted pistol.”

Rhys stood in the tavern entrance. He took up so much of the doorway that only a few meager scraps of sunlight framed his imposing silhouette. Slow, heavy strides carried him into the room, and Meredith’s heart bounced with each one.

“You know, Myles,” he said, propping one elbow on the bar, “it’s my experience that men who are always bragging about the size of their firearms are compensating for other”—he raked Gideon with a derisive glance—“deficiencies.” He turned to Meredith. “Good morning, Mrs. Maddox.”