Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(50)

Which parts of her body he’d like to stroke, and which to kiss. Which parts might respond more favorably to a lick …

Just as that pleasant image was carrying him off to sleep, Rhys was startled awake by a loud sound. A new sound.

There it was again. A noise like rocks clacking together, or the scraping of chain. Too clumsy to be the work of any nocturnal creature.

He rose from his pallet and strode over to the corner where he’d left an old crate. Planting one boot on the crate, he grasped the top of the wall with his hands and vaulted up to sit on the packed-earth wall. He scanned the darkness. Nothing caught his eye, but the sound reached his ears again. This time, more like a distant bang. And was that an inhuman howl, or a trick of the wind?

Finally, he turned toward the hillside and looked up to the rise where the ruins of Nethermoor Hall could still be glimpsed, presiding over the gloom. A strange wisp of white light came into view, bobbing briefly on the crest of the hill before it disappeared again.

With a rough grunt, Rhys shoved himself off the wall. His boots punched the ground, and he hit the trail a moment after. Most likely, he’d find nothing but wind and mist, or perhaps some bats making mischief. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d investigated.

His long strides ate up the rocky slope, and soon he’d reached the top of the rise. His view of the ruins was unobstructed now—at least, not obstructed by rocks anymore. A frothy mist still swirled about the place, weaving through the arches and spiraling up the lone remaining chimney.

“Hullo!” he called out as he reached the edge of the burnt-out hall. “Someone there?”

No answer. Not that he’d been expecting one.

And there it was again—the light. Darting and dancing in the mist, like a mischievous little piskie. That sight would have been enough to send most moorfolk fleeing for their snug thatched-roof huts. Local legend told of many an unsuspecting fellow being “piskie-led” into danger.

But Rhys didn’t believe in piskies or ghosts. If anything was playing tricks on him, it was just the fog. Or perhaps his memory. A lot of bad memories lived here.

Crouching, he threaded his body through the remains of a window and entered the ruin. Despite the glow of the moonlight, he wished he’d brought a torch. It was darker here, inside the old walls. As though the stones sucked all the moonlight into themselves and devoured it.

Intrigued by another flash of light, he entered a mostly intact corridor. He searched his mind in vain for any memory of this place—it was long and narrow, with no doors opening off it, save the two on either end. Most likely it had connected the main house with the servant quarters. He’d never wandered there, never been friendly with the servants. With the exception of George Lane, he’d spoken to the servants as little as possible, save the occasional churlish word when absolutely necessary. If they didn’t know him, or didn’t like him, his boyhood logic had argued, they wouldn’t ask inconvenient questions or try to interfere.

Suddenly the wind picked up, gusting through the narrow tunnel with an almost human scream. Rhys picked up his pace, spurred by the wind’s icy bite on his neck.

He stumbled a little on a bit of rock, and he swore. Why was he letting this place spook him? After all, wasn’t his the spirit supposedly haunting the place? He should find nothing here to scare him, not anymore.

But against all reason, his head began to spin. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself, closing his eyes to the dark.

The more the wind blew and echoed through that corridor, the higher his hair raised along his scalp. He heard the echoes of his father’s shouts, his mother’s keening wail, his own startled cries. And those horses … God, the screaming horses. Nausea churned in his gut.

Enough of this. Enough. Mysterious piskie lights be damned.

Rhys turned on his booted heel and started back down the corridor the way he’d come. At some point his determined stride became a jog. He tripped over the same damn stone he’d stumbled over before, this time sprawling to the ground. His knee skidded on gravel, and grit dug under his fingernails.

Stand, the voice inside him said. On your feet, brat.

Just like always, he obeyed, scrambling to his feet and running for the entrance of the corridor. Only when he reached open air did he let himself slow. He stood doubled over, hands braced on his knees, drinking great lungfuls of moorland mist. Why had he ever returned to this cursed place?

A loud clanging behind him made him jump.

“Who is it?” he demanded, whirling around. “Who’s there?”

No answer. No lights. No more wind, it seemed.

Just a sudden, sharp blow to the back of his head.

The night suddenly had stars.

And the old bastard kept after him, even as he slumped to the rocky ground. Up. Get up. Stand and take another, you sniveling son of a whore.

As he spun into unconsciousness, the voice mercifully faded. And even the stars behind his eyelids went dark.

The Three Hounds was enjoying another profitable night. Meredith smiled with satisfaction at the sight of the packed public room. The men had finished the second rise on the inn’s new wing today, Rhys had paid out the weekly wages, and tomorrow was Sunday, a day of rest. All were in good spirits. And with Cora behind the bar, the spirits were flowing freely.

As for Cora herself, she was laughing at something one of the men said. Her back was to Meredith, and the room was too noisy to hear, but those blond ringlets dangling from her upsweep shook merrily. All good, all good. Meredith was very pleased with how Cora’s employment was working out. The girl was a bit childlike and dreamy, perhaps. But she’d revealed herself to have a surprisingly good head for sums and a cheerful, friendly manner with the travelers.