Her heart fluttered. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
“This.” He gestured at the breakfast laid out on the table between them. A few rolls, small earthenware crocks of butter and preserves. Two mugs of coffee and a dish of fresh cream. The plates were scattered randomly; crumbs dotted the checked tablecloth. The scene hardly looked like an omen of fate to her, but then—she thought she grasped his meaning. The warm light shone on them both with familiar intent, leaving them nowhere to hide their imperfections from each other. She hadn’t even pinned her hair properly this morning. To any casual observer, they would look like a couple having their thousandth breakfast together, instead of their first.
His warm gaze caught hers. “It just feels right, doesn’t it?”
It did. It did. It was the rightest thing she’d ever felt, and utterly terrifying.
“Don’t fight it,” he said. “Marry me.”
Don’t fight it? But he wasn’t fighting fair. He’d been gone for fourteen years, and now he strolled in one morning making promises to fulfill all his responsibilities and never leave again? Asking her and the village to abandon their hard-won security and place their futures right back in Ashworth hands? He offered a dream, but he’d force her to give up her safe reality to grasp it.
She just couldn’t take that chance. Not on the basis of one almost-kiss and some invisible glimmer of “fate.”
She forced herself to say the words. “No, Rhys. I can’t marry you.”
His eyes flared, and his hand balled into a fist. For a moment, he almost looked angry. Strange, after he’d remained so cool and collected before the riled-up villagers. Here was a flash of the Rhys she remembered from all those years ago: wild, angry, untamed. Irresistible.
Just a few seconds later, he’d suppressed that hot flare of emotion. His jaw relaxed, and he smoothed the tablecloth with his palm.
Of all the reasons why he needed to leave Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, this was the most compelling. She couldn’t bear to see this place beat the spirit out of him forever.
“Well.” She stood on weakened legs. “You’ll have a long day ahead of you.”
“That I will, Mrs. Maddox.” He looked resigned as he rose from the table. “That I will.”
“Shall I have Darryl saddle your horse?”
“No, no. I’ll let him rest today.”
She frowned with confusion. “So … you mean to stay another night, then?”
“I mean to stay permanently.”
Flustered thoroughly now, she sat back down. “Did you not hear me, my lord? I’m sorry if I was unclear, but …” God, did she even have the strength to refuse him twice? Once had been difficult enough.
He smiled and headed for the door. “Don’t worry, Merry Lane, I heard you. I know you said you can’t marry me. But I also know you will. Just not quite yet.”
After Rhys disappeared upstairs, Meredith kept herself busy. It wasn’t difficult. There was always work to be done, and this morning, the more mindless the task, the better. She’d only just cleared the breakfast table when Mrs. Ware came in to start the day’s cookery. There were tablecloths to iron and pewter mugs to scrub. Tomorrow afternoon the mail coach came through, and depending on the weather and condition of the roads, sometimes the driver stopped at the Three Hounds to rest the horses and allow passengers to take refreshment.
Before the noontime rush, she took a moment to rest. She picked up one of the newspapers Gideon had brought in the night before and opened it, smoothing the creased paper against the bar counter. Ostensibly the papers were for the inn’s guests, but Meredith was the only one who read them. She read them all, every page. All those years of the war, she’d scoured them for any mention of Rhys. In the weeks following a battle, she would sometimes find an account of his regiment’s bravery or a list of casualties that mercifully did not include his name. Today, it felt as though she should snap open the paper and find the headline RHYS ST. MAUR RETURNED TO DEVONSHIRE. Perhaps if she saw the words in print, she’d start to believe it was true. Though she doubted even the reporters of The Times could find a logical explanation for that scene over breakfast this morning. Perhaps the headline ought to read: IMPOVERISHED LANDLADY REFUSES LORD’S OFFER OF MARRIAGE.
Underneath that, in smaller letters, BOTH COMMITTED TO BEDLAM.
“Left your cask of Madeira in the storeroom.” Gideon Myles appeared. He plunked a ceramic figurine on the counter. “And this washed up in a cove near Plymouth.”
“Did it now?” Meredith took the china shepherdess in her hand and examined it in the light. It was finely made and carefully painted. Exquisite.
Fragile.
“Astonishing,” she said, “that such a thing would survive being tossed about the waves and thrown up against a rocky shoreline.”
“Is it?” Gideon said innocently, his mouth tipping in a grin. The man was devilish handsome, and he knew it. Not only knew it, but made use of it. As an intermediary between Devonshire’s coastal smugglers and the markets of Bristol, London, and beyond, Gideon used that roguish charm to line his pockets, warm his nights, and generally have an ungodly amount of fun.
“Rather a miracle,” she said.
“Thought she would look well in one of your redecorated rooms. Add a touch of class, you know.”
“That she will.” She smiled down at the shepherdess. “Very thoughtful of you, Gideon. I’m grateful.”
His brow quirked. “How grateful?”
Impossible flirt. “Pint-of-ale grateful.”
“Damn. Was hoping for straight-to-bed grateful. But I won’t turn down the drink. Next time, I’ll bring a string of bloody emeralds.”
“I don’t expect those wash up in coves too often,” she said, sliding him a tankard of ale.
He gave her a devious smile. “Just have to know where to look.” He threw back half his ale in one draught, and when he lowered the drink, his demeanor had changed. He stacked his arms on the bar. “What’s Ashworth doing back in Devonshire?”
“How should I know?”
He stared at her, silently letting her know he didn’t believe her ignorance for one moment.
Meredith shrugged. “Well, he’s inherited the lands now, hasn’t he? Only natural that he’d stop by to have a look at them.” With a careful air of indifference, she added, “Perhaps he wants to start fulfilling his role as Lord Ashworth.”
Gideon coughed. “Why would he want to do that? I might just as soon take up the old vicar’s legacy.”
He forced a chuckle, but Meredith caught the wounded glint in his eyes. Gideon Myles had been orphaned as a small boy when his parents fell victim to a fever. The vicar had taken him in, sheltered and educated him for many years. But when the living dried up, the clergyman left the village and abandoned Gideon to fend for himself at the age of thirteen.
“Shouldn’t you like to be a vicar?” she asked. He laughed again, and she protested, “No, I mean it. I think you’d be better suited to the clergy than you credit. For all you cultivate that roguish image, you’ve a good heart beneath.” She laid a fingertip on the ceramic lamb kneeling at his mistress’s feet. “And a quick mind, as well. You’re far too intelligent to be engaging in petty crime as a profession.”
He looked away, and she thought she caught a blush rising on his throat. “Options are limited in these parts, aren’t they?” He shook his head. “No, it’s a devil’s life for me. But lately I’m becoming far too acquainted with celibacy.”
She laughed off his suggestive glance, knowing the words were just idle flirtation. As she’d told Rhys, Gideon was a business associate and a friend. Nothing more. Granted, he was a strapping man with a natural drive, and he probably wouldn’t refuse an invitation to her bed. But she liked him too much to risk ruining things for a night or two of pleasure. That’s why the few lovers she’d taken since Maddox died were all travelers passing through. No risk of emotional attachment.
Looking back, maybe that’s why she’d always been so drawn to Rhys. He was always in motion—running, riding, brawling, fighting his way across the Continent. He was a man who’d never allow anything to hold him in one place.
Except now he was back, vowing to do just that—stay in one place.
“He said he wants to rebuild Nethermoor Hall.” The words slipped out.
With a violent curse, Gideon plunked down his tankard. “Why the devil would he want to do that? It’s worthless moorland up there.”
“I know it, but Rhys said …” Her voice trailed off as she realized her slip.
His eyes flashed. “Oh, Rhys said? On cozy terms with him, are you?”
“Not like that,” she replied tartly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Damn right it is my business.” He lowered his voice. “My business. My livelihood. I can’t afford his presence here, Meredith. Neither can you. Ashworth’s already put me a day behind schedule. If he stays in the neighborhood, my trade is finished. If I can’t keep up my trade, you won’t have cheap stores for this inn. If the inn suffers, the whole village suffers. That man is nothing but trouble for Buckleigh-in-the-Moor.”
“I know, I know.” She frowned, scrubbing at a water spot on the countertop that had been there for years and wasn’t likely to go away anytime soon. “And I tried to tell him as much, but …”
She couldn’t complete that sentence. I tried to tell him as much, but he insisted it was destiny that I marry him.
Mistaking her silence for genuine concern, Gideon stayed her wrist with his hand. “Don’t you worry. He won’t be in the village long. One way or another, I’ll see to it.”
She nodded, knowing he would. And his protective touch was kind, she supposed, but it did nothing for her. Not like Rhys’s touch last night. She still felt that light caress tingling on her cheek.
It feels right, doesn’t it?
She shook herself.
Gideon said, “If no man in the neighborhood will work for him, cart for him, or sell to him, he’ll be forced to give up soon enough. And if he doesn’t … well, there are other ways of convincing him.”
“Like those torches this morning?”
Cursing, he cocked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I meant ways that involve real men and real weapons. Not a pair of inbred apes and a simpleton stable boy with his water pail.”
She pointedly ignored his mention of violence and weapons. “Speaking of Darryl, I’d best call him and Father to their noon meal.”
“Can you call all the way to Nethermoor, then? Always knew you were a clear-spoken woman, but that would astonish even me.”
“What do you mean? Darryl’s not up at Nethermoor. I just saw him, not ten minutes ago.”
“Not Darryl. Your father.” He raised an eyebrow.
“My father? Up at Nethermoor? What’s he doing up there?”
Gideon shrugged and tipped his ale. “Better ask him that, hadn’t you? Or your friend Rhys. It’s the two of them up there together. My man just brought me the news.”
Meredith put aside her rag.
“Not that I mind. The Symmonds boys are loading the ponies as we speak. We’ll take them out toward Two Oaks and then around the long way. Ashworth and your father can stay out there all day, so far as I’m concerned.”
“Not if I have something to say about it.” She jerked at her apron strings, her fingers clumsy with nerves. Her father should not be out on the moor in the midday sun. That sort of exertion could endanger his health.
Gideon was right. Rhys’s presence here was nothing but trouble for them all. She would go tell Rhys St. Maur to let her father be, pack up all his silly proposals, and leave the village today. And then she would somehow excise him from her imagination and get on with her life.
