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“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 forher, 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.”
“Yes,” she replied stupidly.
Yes. It was a very good morning, now.
Rhys looked magnificent. Fresh-scrubbed, clean-shaven, and turned out like a gentleman from head to toe—topcoat, cravat, waistcoat, trousers, boots. How had he managed it, camping out on the moor? She had visions—delicious visions—of him bathing in the stream, shaving in the glassy reflection of the pool. But why? For what earthly purpose?
Though her brain puzzled over the mystery, the rest of her had no question. She knew in her blood he’d made the effort for her. And that made him the most powerfully arousing sight she’d ever beheld. He smelled of soap and wild sage and clean male skin. She stared hard at the snow-white tangle of linen at his throat. Her fingers itched to get at that knot, wrest it open, wend inside his shirt, and lay claim to all within. He was like one big elaborately wrapped gift that she longed to tear open.
She laughed silently at the irony. All that care he’d put into his dress, with the ultimate result that she wanted him immediately, completely naked.
His fingers, so thick inside her …
“Are you ready for church?” he asked.
The word jarred her. “Ch-church? Did you say church?” And no. She was absolutely ready for something, but church wasn’t it.
“Itisthe first Sunday of the month, is it not?”
She nodded in disbelief.Thiswas the reason he was all dandied up? For church?
As if in confirmation, the church bell began to toll.
