Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(5)

Rhys blinked at the youth, unsure whether to be amused, bemused, offended, or … mildly concerned. Outlandish as Darryl’s tale might be, parts of it held the faint ring of truth. All these years he’d spent feeling half alive, could it be because he’d left some ghost of his adolescent self behind? He shook his head to dispel the fool notion. This Dartmoor fog must be creeping in through his ears, muddling his brain.

“So.” Darryl leaned forward and waggled his eyebrows. “The tour. Are you man enough? Do you dare risk an encounter with Rhys St. Maur, the living phantom of Bell Tor?”

A smile tugged at Rhys’s lips. Now this could prove amusing. Before he could decide just how to respond, a figure joined Darryl’s on the business side of the bar.

Meredith.

Mrs. Maddox, he corrected himself.

“Darryl,” she said, clouting the youth on the back of the head, “you idiot. This is Rhys St. Maur. Lord Ashworth now. You’re talking to your ‘living phantom,’ live and in the flesh.”

Darryl’s pale face went whiter still as he stared at Rhys, jaw working to no audible effect. At least his eye had finally ceased twitching.

The youth swallowed hard as Rhys braced his arm on the bar and leaned forward. Until their faces were just inches apart. And then, when he was certain Darryl was paying very close attention, he lowered his voice and whispered …

“Boo.”

Chapter Two

“I … You’re …” Darryl stammered. “I mean to say, it isn’t …” “I’ll see to him, Darryl.” With a tone that would brook no argument, Meredith shooed the addlewit groom from the bar. “Back to the stables you go.”

Rhys was staring at her. To avoid staring back, Meredith quickly looked away, making a show of straightening bottles. So far, she’d made do with furtive glances, but she’d gaze at him all night long if she could, exploring his every contour and shadow. Cataloging all the ways he’d changed and all the ways he hadn’t.

His hair was the first thing she’d noticed. Or rather, the lack of it. He kept it shorn close to his scalp now, and that had thrown her for a moment when she’d seen him in the door. All her memories of Rhys featured long waves of dark hair pulled back with a bit of leather cord. Or falling loose in roguish locks over his brow. He’d tried to hide his face sometimes back then—the new bruise purpling beneath his eye, or a fresh split in his lip.

He seemed to have given up on hiding his injuries now. His face was a map of scars she didn’t recognize, but she blessed those healed wounds. They told her she wasn’t dreaming this time. This was truly Rhys St. Maur sitting there on the stool, one elbow propped on the counter. Huge and defiant and rugged and—holy God—right there in front of her. In the flesh. After fourteen years.

“I know you,” he said slowly. His tone made it a question.

“Do you?” Desperate to disguise her shock, Meredith reached for his empty tankard.

His fingers tightened over the handle. Large, roughened. Strong.

Her gaze snapped up to his, and again he snared her with those gorgeous eyes. In all the years she’d spent living on the Nethermoor estate, Rhys St. Maur had never looked at her like this. He’d scarcely looked at her at all. Now she could see that his eyes were wild and beautiful, just like the rest of him. Deep, rich brown streaked with amber. Like the finest cognac, or …

“Brandy,” she breathed.

His brow lifted. A thick scar split it in two.

“Care for a brandy?” She cleared her throat. “Cool night out there. A man needs something more than ale to warm him.”

“Does he?” His lips quirked in a sensuous way.

She cursed silently, realizing the flirtatious implication of her words. That hadn’t been her intent. Not that she found it repulsive, the idea of … warming Rhys St. Maur. To the contrary, fantasies of doing just that had steamed her bathwater for years. “I … I only meant …”

“I know. Thank you, Mrs. Maddox. But I don’t drink spirits.”

Well. He might not need a drink, but Meredith did. She reached for a bottle under the counter—her private reserve—and poured herself a generous amount.

“I know you,” he said. Not a question this time. His voice was deeper than she recalled, and it reached different places inside her. “I don’t remember you, but I know you.”

She tilted the glass of gin slowly, taking a fortifying swallow before answering. “Meredith Lane,” she finally said, giving him her maiden name. “You likely don’t recall, but my father—”

“Managed our stables. Of course I recall.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You’re George Lane’s girl? Impossible. When I saw that girl last, she was nothing but freckles and bone.”

Her cheeks heated. He did remember her. Not precisely the way she’d have wished to be remembered, but it was something.

“Merry Lane,” he said, his voice gone soft. A low chuckle caught in his throat. “Can’t believe it. You’re little Merry Lane.”

The warmth in her cheeks was a full blush now. That was the only notice he’d taken of her as a girl—her silly, sentimental name. If they crossed paths in the stables, he’d say it with a mocking lilt in his voice as he impatiently brushed her aside.