Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

“I’m sorry. I’m not angry.” He grabbed his boots and sat on the opposite edge of the bed. “I … I’m just not especially good with words. I want to explain this, but it may not come out right. Will you let me try?”


She shrugged her acquiescence.

He began cramming his right foot into its boot. “I’ve torn apart a lot of things in my life. Too many. I’ve been in the business of death for years now, and there’s only one thing I’ve never successfully managed to destroy. You’re looking at it.” He began on the left boot, working more slowly. His stiff knee made it tricky. “This body has survived blows, musket balls, bayonets, grenades, and whatever else God and Napoleon could find to hurl at it. I’m simply fated to live. There’s no other explanation. And now that I’ve come to terms with that, I’m done tearing things apart.”

He plunked his booted feet on the floor and turned to face her. “I want to build something now. Can you understand? Every day for years, I’ve woken up thinking, this is the day I die, or kill trying. Now I wake up and think, this is the day I start mixing the cob. I’m working myself to bones out there on the moor, sweating and piling rocks and digging in the dirt. Each morning I’m greeted by new aches and pains, heaped atop a lifetime of injuries. But it’s all worth it. I’m going to build that house with my own hands, from the foundation to the roof. I’m going to do it for us, and I’m going to do it right, so it lasts forever. Can’t go raising walls on a shaky foundation. Can’t go slapping thatch over rafters so thin, they’ll topple with the first winter storm. Do you know?”

She nodded. “I know.”

He reached for her hand. “It’s the same with us. I mean to build something with you. Something that will last. Much as I want you, I don’t want to rush and bollocks it up. We’re meant to be together, and—”

“Rhys …”

“And I know you don’t believe that yet.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s all right. I’ll keep building—stone by stone, plank by plank, kiss by kiss—until you do. And yes, I’ll wake up stiff and aching for you each morning. But it’s worth it.” He reached out and tilted her face to his. “You’re worth it.”

Her eyes went wide. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood and reached for his waistcoat. “What I am is indestructible. And I’m not going anywhere, Meredith. You’re stuck with me now.”

Chapter Eight

“Here you are. Coddled eggs and toast.” Meredith laid the plate in front of her father. He frowned at it. “Thought I asked for fried.”

“Did you?” She propped her hands on the waistline of her green serge skirt and stared at the plate. “Are you sure?”

“I’m getting old, Merry. But not so old I can’t remember what I said five minutes ago.”

She plunked the salt down in front of him. “Just eat them. Eggs are eggs.”

His bushy eyebrows rose as he lifted his coffee. “What’s gotten into you this morning? You’re not your usual self.”

No. No, she wasn’t. What a morning. Thank goodness Rhys hadn’t shown his face for breakfast. She wouldn’t have known what to say to him. And considering her state of distraction, she probably would have served him burnt porridge with a side of soap.

“I’m sorry, Father.” She moved back to the stove and cracked two eggs into a buttered pan. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Perhaps I’m not sleeping enough of late.”

“You haven’t slept enough in years, Merry. You’re always working yourself too hard. Things will improve, now that Rhys is back.”

“I’m not engaged to Rhys.” Just how many times would she be forced to say those words before someone believed them?

“Even if you aren’t. He’ll give me a post, and I can support you for a change. The way it should be. You can rest.”

Meredith shook her head. As if she would allow her crippled, aged father to perform manual labor while she sat idly by. “I don’t want to rest. I want to keep my inn.”

Rhys had truly moved her earlier, with his little speech about building the house, and constructing it to last. The excitement shining in his eyes had been wonderful to see. She understood just what he meant, because she felt the same way about the Three Hounds. No, she hadn’t built it from the ground up, but she’d worked herself not just to the bone, but to the marrow to make the inn what it was today. She was damned proud of it, too.

This place represented independence, security, friendship, personal satisfaction … a home. Everything she’d ever wanted in her life, save one thing.

Rhys St. Maur.

And now, miracle of miracles, it seemed that Rhys wanted her, too. But only if she agreed to marry him. Only if she gave up the inn.

He simply didn’t understand. Her responsibilities extended beyond caring for her father. The Three Hounds was the financial and social heart of the village. Everyone in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor depended on it, and depended on her to manage it.