Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(6)

Run along home, Merry Lane.

“I’m not Merry Lane anymore.” Wiping down the counter with a rag, she kept her tone light. “That’s the magic of being gone from the neighborhood fourteen years, my lord. Things change in your absence.”

“So they do, Mrs. Maddox. So they do.” Suddenly serious, he cleared his throat. “Your father … He’s still living?”

“Upstairs as we speak. He oversees the inn’s stables now, with Darryl’s help. Though we seldom shelter anything finer than pack ponies and the occasional traveler’s mount.”

“I’d like to see him.”

“Then you’ll have to wait. He’ll be sleeping now, but tomorrow you can …” She paused. “I’m assuming you mean to stay the night here. It is the only inn for miles.”

Please stay, a fool voice inside her pleaded. Please don’t walk away again just yet.

“Yes, for the night.”

“Just the one night?” Not that it mattered. Whether he stayed one night or ten, he was sure to leave again eventually. There was nothing for him here. His inherited lands were largely worthless moorland. Nethermoor Hall itself was a burnt-out ruin, and it ought to stay that way.

“Just the one night.” He gave her a slight, self-effacing smile. “If you’ve a room for a living phantom, that is.”

“Don’t mind Darryl Tewkes,” she said quickly. “He’s been embroidering that tale for years. He plies it on all the travelers passing through, trying to entice them to stay in the neighborhood an extra night. More money for the inn, you know, as well as for his pocket. He even has some of the cottagers along the touring route making souvenirs to sell. Miniature stone crosses and the like.”

“How enterprising of him. An industrious employee, a capable young wife … Old Maddox seems to have done quite well for himself.”

“The man’s six years in the grave. Depends on your point of view, whether that’s doing well or not.”

His jaw tensed. “You’re widowed.”

She nodded in reply.

“I’m sorry for it.”

“Don’t be.” She fumbled with the glass she’d been wiping clean. Devil take it, she was a widow, an innkeeper, and turning thirty in two summers. How did he make her feel like an awkward girl again? “I mean, it’s been years. I’ve been widowed longer than I was married, by now. And he left me the inn, so we get by well enough.”

“We? Have you children?”

The familiar pang came and ebbed in a heartbeat. She shook her head. “No. Just me and Father. And Darryl, since his aunt died. And all the villagers, for that matter. We had to find a way to get by, didn’t we? The primary local employer deserted us fourteen years ago.”

Rhys stared at his ale a moment. Then he lifted it and drank in silence.

He looked chastened, and she rued the bitterness in her tone. But he should know the truth—it hadn’t been easy. The late Lord Ashworth had been a right bastard, but at least he’d paid wages on occasion and given the local merchants some custom. After Nethermoor burned down and the family deserted the region, the village was left at loose ends. There was very little agriculture in the area, this being the rocky heart of the moor. Buckleigh-in-the-Moor lost an entire generation as the young men left town, one by one. The new war prison at Princetown gave some work for a time. Others went further, to Exeter or Plymouth. Those few who remained in the village relied on what wages the Three Hounds could provide—as Darryl did—or else made a living through shady dealings.

Speaking of shady dealings … As if she’d called him in from the cold with the thought, Gideon Myles strolled through the door.

The assembled men greeted him with a rousing cheer, to which Gideon responded with a gallant tip of his low-brimmed cap. As always, he took a moment to savor his notoriety, vigorously shaking the outstretched hands of several men. All too soon, however, his keen eyes sought her out. Meredith knew better than to wait for him to approach.

“Back in a trice,” she told Rhys, hurrying out from behind the bar. Rhys was only passing through, just staying the night. He and Gideon Myles had no business with one another, but only trouble could result if they met.

Gideon greeted her with a roguish grin. He was a young man—at least three years her junior—but he’d never lacked for arrogance. He was also far too handsome for his own good. “Well, well,” he said. “Don’t you look eager to see me? And for good reason, too. I’ve a cask of Madeira for you this week.”

“Fine, fine,” she said distractedly, darting a glance at Rhys. “Can we go outside and discuss it in the courtyard?”

“The courtyard? I just came in. It’s cold as a witch’s cunny out there, and near as damp.” His eyebrow arched, and he lowered his voice to a suggestive murmur. “Unless you wanted a bit of privacy, in which case I’d suggest a different location …”

She blew out a frustrated breath. Now was not the time for flirtation. Pulling him aside, she said, “You can’t unload the wagon tonight.”

“What do you mean? I know the mist’s a bit thick, but by the time the men load up the ponies the weather’s sure to—”

“No, no. You mustn’t load the ponies, either. I mean it, Gideon. Tonight won’t do. You can pull the wagon into the barn, and we’ll cover it with blankets and such. Darryl will sleep atop it, for safekeeping.”