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Rhys gritted his teeth against the pain. He’d known enough pain in his life that it was sort of like crossing paths with an old acquaintance in the road. The hurt came, he acknowledged it with a jerk of his head, and then they parted ways. “Found nothing but shadows, and caught a rock to the head for my trouble.”
“Did you see who did it?”
He laughed a little. Only a little, because laughing hurt like the devil. “Can a man see the wind? Could I grab hold of the mist? A gust of wind must have knocked a stone free. Those old walls are crumbling more with every gale.”
“Are you certain there wasn’t someone there? Someone purposely trying to harm you?”
“And who would that be?”
“I don’t know,” she said, avoiding his gaze. Her lips quirked. “A ghost, perhaps? The moorfolk have their suspicions, you know.”
“Yes, and Gideon Myles has a passionate wish to see me dead. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
Meredith circled behind him. “You do have a nice hand with stitching,” she told Cora.
With a hint of pride in her voice, Cora replied, “My mum was a seamstress.”
“The bleeding’s stopped. Well done. Cora, you may go close up the tavern.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maddox.”
Once Cora had left, Rhys heard the trickle of water. Then he felt a cool cloth pressed to his aching pate. Her fingers teased through the hair at his brow, creating ripples of sweet pleasure to counteract the pain.
“Why do you keep your hair cut so short?” she asked. “You used to wear it long.”
“Started shearing it close in the army. Because of the lice. Now I’m just used to it.”
“Oh.” Her fingers stilled. “Well, it made Cora’s work easier tonight. No amount of stitching could save your shirt, though. Went straight into the fire.” She removed the damp cloth and applied a fresh one. “When did this happen? Gideon came in tonight just a short while before you did, and he was in an unusually good mood. That is, until you stumbled through that door. He seems to have disappeared now.”
“I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Could have been seconds, could have been hours. But I doubt Myles had anything to do with it. If he’d been responsible for this”—he raised his hand and gingerly explored the wound—“something tells me he would have made more effort to finish the job. And I didn’t see anyone. It was just an accident.”
“I thought you don’t believe in accidents.”
Before he could argue, liquid fire tore across his scalp.
He yelped with pain. “What the devil was that?”
“Local gin. I told you, it cures all ills.”
“Jesus. You might have given me warning at least.”
She made a sound in her throat. “Oh, I’ll give you a warning, Rhys St. Maur. Wind, fog, ghost, or man … it matters not. You shouldn’t be sleeping out on the moor alone. It’s not safe.”
Rhys rested his chin on the back of the chair as the pain receded and the room came into sharper focus. He liked having her fuss over him, loved the concern in her voice. “I’d say you don’t need to worry about me. But I rather enjoy it that you do.”
“Of course I worry.” She swabbed his neck and shoulders clean, then went to the washbasin and began to rinse her hands. “Just the same as I’d worry about Darryl or Cora or Father, or …”
“Really? Just the same as you’d worry about them?” He turned to face her and noticed that her hands were shaking as she washed. “Or do you worry about me differently?”
The soap slid from her grasp and landed in the basin with a splash. “Rhys …”
After a month of coming to understand Meredith Maddox, he knew better than to press the issue just now. He rose from his chair, slid a towel from its hook, and dried her hands himself. “You’re trembling,” he said. “Come sit close to the fire. Let me look after you for a bit.”
“You’re not fit to stand.”
“I’m not fit for much of anything.” He gave her his best stab at a cavalier grin. “Hasn’t stopped me yet.”
After seeing her seated by the fire, he took up the still-steaming kettle. “I see Cora’s made tea.” He poured her a cup.
