Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

“I’m not setting him up for disappointment. I’m preparing him for eventualities. You’re the one becoming agitated about things that won’t come to pass.” He chucked her under the chin. “I’m not going anywhere, Merry Lane.”


“Please …” When he said such things, with sincerity in those warm brown eyes, he made her want to believe him so desperately she could barely stand. “Please don’t call me that.”

“You don’t like it?”

Not even Maddox had called her Merry, nor her lovers since. Her lovers hadn’t called her anything at all. Well, the one nice gent had called her “love,” and then there’d been that haunted-looking soul who’d called her “Sally” over and over again, then wept noisily in her arms for an hour afterward. That had been awkward. He’d put her off the whole business for a year.

It had been a long time since she’d felt a man’s arms around her. And Rhys had some very fine arms. They could probably wrap around her twice.

Focus, Merry Lane.

“It’s too familiar, and you know it,” she said. “I don’t even answer to Lane anymore.”

“You’re right,” he said, nodding. “We should do this properly. I’ll not call you by your Christian name till we’re married. And even then, only after the novelty of calling you Lady Ashworth wears off.” He smiled. “Might take a month or two.”

Who would have guessed it? The man could be downright charming when he wished to be.

And all too often, she could be a complete fool. “Y-yes, but … That is, I mean …” She stammered a bit, dropping her eyes in an effort to gather composure. The effort failed.

A puckered scar on his chest snagged her attention. Near his right shoulder, about the size of a shilling and just as round. It must have been a musket ball wound. She got lost in that scar for a moment, wondering what had become of the ball. Was it still lodged somewhere within that dense, powerful shoulder? Or had it ripped straight through? In either case, it was a miracle his arm hadn’t separated from the rest of him, and that he still had the use of the limb at all.

Abruptly realizing she was being rude, Meredith lifted her face to his. With relief, she noted he wasn’t looking at her, either. He was staring intently, thoughtfully—perhaps almost wistfully?—at something beyond her. Which was odd, because she knew there was nothing behind her but rocks. For a moment, she resisted the urge to turn around.

But then she gave in to temptation and turned away. Just as she’d suspected, there was nothing to see but the same eternal moorland—sloping gorse mottled with boulders. A harsh, endless landscape in shades of gray and brown and muted green, capped by a sky so endless and blue, she imagined an ocean couldn’t rival it for depth or hue.

Not that she’d ever been near an ocean.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s pretty.” He sounded surprised. “This place. Over the years, I’ve never remembered it that way, but it’s …” He sighed roughly. “It’s beautiful.”

Meredith stared, trying to imagine this vista through the eyes of someone who hadn’t grown up looking at it every day of her life. She thought of the adjectives travelers used: forbidding, eerie, lonesome. Even some of the villagers avoided the high moorland for years at a time. Up here, there were no trees, no shelter from the wind and sun. No mercy. There was a reason they’d built the war prison not twenty miles away. Despite the brilliant colors and vast expanse, to most this place resembled a jail made of emptiness rather than walls.

It took a certain courage, to look on this landscape and call it beautiful.

“It is beautiful,” she said, turning to face him. And so was he. Rugged, scarred, wild …

“I’m glad you think so, too. Since you’ll be looking on this view the majority of your days, once it’s finished.” His smile was a flash of white in his tanned face.

Beautiful. He was a beautiful, enormous, impossible fool of a man.

“You know,” he said slyly, “if I had a few laborers, I wouldn’t need your father out here at all. Surely you have some influence with the local men.”

She did. But that wasn’t the point. “I know you mean well. But you can’t expect to simply ride back into Buckleigh-in-the-Moor one night and have the village on your side the next morning. The name Ashworth is a curse in these parts. People still remember your father’s misdeeds, even if you’ve forgotten them.”

He grew pensive, tight. “I haven’t forgotten them.”

She cursed herself silently. Of course he wouldn’t have forgotten them. They’d been beaten into him but good. Even now, he probably still bore marks from them, somewhere under all those battle scars.

He said, “I promise you, I remember my father’s misdeeds as clearly as I recall my own. And that’s why I’ve been spared all these years, so I can return and set accounts to rights.”