Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

Oddly satisfying. He’d been wanting to give Julian Bellamy a swift kick in the arse.

The two disappeared from the carriage, and when the entire conveyance didn’t snap an axle or overturn, Rhys assumed that meant they’d cleared the wheels. Time for him to follow.

But just as he made his way to the open door, the speeding coach hit a rock. Or perhaps it jumped the side of the road. No way to tell, but the thing went airborne for a stomach-launching second. Then it landed with a splintering crunch of wood, careening to one side.

Rhys was thrown away from the door, against the far side of the carriage. His head hit the window with a violent crack. The world oscillated between light and dark for a moment as he danced on the brink of consciousness.

When his wits returned to him, all he knew was that the carriage wasn’t rolling anymore. But neither had it come to a halt. The wrecked cab bounced and tumbled from one obstacle to the next, skipping down the rocky turf as it obeyed the pull of gravity. Progressing steadily toward that cliff.

Rhys could go with it. He could.

He lay stunned and breathless, a jumble of limbs on the floor. His head was pounding with pain. It would be so easy to just stay there. Allow the wreckage to carry him over the cliff and dash him on the rocks below. End it all, today.

He kept waiting for that voice to speak up, echo off the walls of his skull. Get up. Stand, you miserable wretch. Rise and take more.

It didn’t come. Unlike every other time he’d courted death, this time the dark cellar of his mind was eerily quiet. He didn’t hear his father goading and taunting him, forcing him back to life. The old bastard had finally been silenced.

Instead, he heard her. He heard Meredith. His beautiful, strong, sweet Meredith. Her words were the sounds echoing in his ears. I love you, Rhys. Stay. Don’t go.

What a bloody miracle. He didn’t want to leave this earth today. He wanted to stay, and do better.

Which meant he had to get out of this deathtrap. Now, if not sooner.

A wild jounce of the hobbled carriage conveniently tossed him toward the door. The next bump would have thrown him straight back, but Rhys grabbed the edge of the door opening and gripped it with all his strength.

Another jarring blow and loud crunch of wood—some wheel or axle giving way. The resulting tilt sent the coach into a wild, spiraling skid. It also sent the door slamming shut on his fingers. Rhys growled with pain.

But somehow, despite the imminent destruction of the coach, he got his legs under him, shouldered the door open, spared one brief glance at the ground to judge his distance …

And jumped.

A moment too late.

It was a beautiful day to die.

The sun shone overhead, warm and comforting. A fresh, salty breeze wafted over his skin. For a moment, all Rhys could hear was the music of distant seagulls and the gentle rhythm of waves. Then came the deafening crash, as the carriage exploded on the jagged boulders below.

He winced, clinging desperately to the rocky overhang. Two handfuls of crumbling basalt were all that kept him from following the same vertical path to his own doom. Twisting his neck, he looked down and caught a glimpse of the carriage. Or rather, the driftwood and flotsam that had once been a carriage.

Rhys kicked his feet in exploration, scouting for some surface he could push off from. His booted toes scraped the cliff’s sheer face, but he couldn’t get enough leverage. If only his fingers hadn’t been slammed in that door a few seconds earlier. Then he might have found more strength in his hands—enough to hang on, pull up, swing a leg over the edge. As it was, he could barely keep himself from tumbling into the sea.

His vision grayed at the edges, rippling in the center like the surface of a pool. Damn it all. Wasn’t this just the way his life went? He’d finally stopped wanting to die. And on the very same day, a stupid carriage accident would manage to kill him.

God, he loved Meredith. He loved her so much. Now he’d never have a chance to say it. He could only hope that she somehow knew. It was entirely possible she did know, even though he’d never said the words. She was a clever woman.

He shut his eyes and turned his concentration inward, bargaining with his weakened, aching fingers. Hold on now, he told them, and you can stroke her later. To distract himself from the dizzying height, he let his mind wander over all the parts of her body he most wanted to touch. Which was every part of her, truly. From her abundant dark hair to her neatly turned toes. And his lust for her body was nothing compared to the admiration he had for her strength of spirit, her generous heart.

As the strength ebbed from his arms, he began to shake. He turned his concentration inward, focusing on that steady beat of his heart. The heart that loved her so very much. He wasn’t dead yet. Not so long as that heart kept beating.

Thump. Thump. A worrying pause. Thump.

Something landed on his arm, and he jerked reflexively, losing another fingerhold.