Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

Suddenly, his mood lightened. He smiled and stretched. The muscles of his abdomen rippled, drawing attention to the line of dark hair dividing them, like the old Roman leat scored the rock-solid moor. Meredith’s mouth went dry.

He said, “I ought to be working. Come now, Mer—” He raised an arm, his biceps flexing as he scratched the back of his head. “Mrs. Maddox. Surely you can—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she blurted out. “Would you please put a shirt on while we’re speaking?”

His face went red. “Of course. I beg your pardon.” Loping a few yards up the incline, he crouched to gather a scrap of white. As he bent, she noted a larger, uneven scar on the back of his shoulder. The answer to her question. Evidently that musket ball had ripped straight through.

A little shudder passed through her as Rhys strode back, yanking the shirt over his head and letting the linen drape loose about his waist.

There, now maybe she could think. Maybe. The sun was beating down on them both, but she knew she had only him to blame for her overheated condition. There was nothing to do but retreat and regroup.

“We’ll discuss this further tonight,” she told him. “Back at the inn. Dinner will be at six. See that you’re not late. I’ve brought you a packed luncheon in the meantime.” She thrust the basket at him, and he took it, surprised. “Be certain my father drinks enough water and finds some shade, or I’ll have your hide. The weather’s fair, but if there’s a mist or a storm, you’re both to stay right here, do you understand? I’ll send men out to you. You’ve been gone from these moors far too long to find your way in the dark. That’s all I need, is for the two of you to go wandering into the bog.”

He flicked a bemused glance toward the bright, cloudless sky. A chuckle rumbled from his throat.

“What?” she asked, her wits fraying at the edges. “What now?”

“You’re speaking like a wife already.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “You’re impossible.”

“See? And there you go again.”

With a low growl of frustration, she turned to walk home.

“It wasn’t a complaint,” he called after her. “I rather liked it.”

So did she. So did she. And that was the most impossible thing of all.

Chapter Six

That evening, Rhys was halfway through his third plate of stew before he paused to draw breath. The day of heavy labor had left him ravenous and exhausted, but in a good way. An honest, productive way. With a pleasantly full belly, he sat back in his chair and watched Meredith as she went about the honest, productive business of running the inn. He shook his head. It wasn’t right. His own day’s labor was over, and she had hours yet to work. Had she even taken her own dinner?

Tonight she had a small group of travelers to tend—a middle-aged man and two younger ladies. Rhys supposed one was the man’s wife and the other his wife’s sister or cousin or some such. But just watching them interact, damned if Rhys could pick out which was which. The man didn’t favor either lady with particular attention or regard. Pathetic. What a waste of matrimony. Once Meredith was his wife, he’d make certain every man in the room knew she belonged to him.

For this evening, however, he was forced to content himself with watching his future wife tend her customers—serving them steaming plates of food and mugs of hot tea, chatting briefly with them about their journey. He hated that she’d been forced to work so hard, but she clearly took some pride and enjoyment in it.

She gave him a smile as she passed his table on her way back to the bar. A sweet, fleeting curve of her lips—and an accidental one, if her quick correction to seriousness was any indication.

As soon as Meredith left the travelers, down swooped Darryl Tewkes like a carrion bird. “Will you fine gentlefolk be staying long in the neighborhood?” He pulled up a stool to their table, crowding the ladies together. “We’ve all manner of fascinating sights here in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. I’d be glad to tour you around, in the morning.”

“Sights?” the man asked through a mouthful of beef. “What sights?”

“Why, it’s a mystical journey through time, you see.”

Rhys drowned his groan with a large swallow of ale. He listened to Darryl launch into his now-familiar speech: the tinners’ works, the cairns, the stone crosses, the tors …

“And best of all …” The gawky youth lowered his voice. “… the haunted ruins of Nethermoor Hall.”

“Haunted?” The two ladies echoed him in unison, then looked to one another wearing matching expressions of horrified glee.

They had to be sisters.

“Aye, the cursed house of Ashworth,” Darryl continued, leaning in close.

Rhys cleared his throat and pushed back, scraping his chair legs against the flagstones.