Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

“It’s the pool, don’t you see? We have a spring of our own in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. One with water that flows crisp and sweet, not malodorous and revolting. And we have a natural place for bathing, far more picturesque than a Roman bath. Heavens, we have our own actual ruins. We don’t need to go about constructing them, as they did for the Gardens.”


She put her arm through his and pulled him along, keeping up her steady stream of plans. “Naturally, the village could never hope to have the fashionable or cultural pull of Bath, but we might be able to style it as some sort of spa. We only have to spread word of the waters, and their healthful benefits. And come up with some sort of pagan legend for Darryl to tell.”

“Isn’t there one already? I thought every nook and cranny of the moor had a story attached to it.”

“True,” she said, “but most of them are frightening. All witches and curses and …”

“Living phantoms?” He pinched her midsection playfully and whispered, “Boo.”

She smiled. “No, I’m serious. The thing to do is start with a classic tale, but twist it to our purpose. You’ve had all that Eton education. What are some legends to do with pools and lakes? Romantic ones, not the ghoulish sort.”

He thought on for a moment. “Do you want something Arthurian and medieval? There’s always the Lady of the Lake.”

“That won’t do. Why would people want to take baths in a pool with some shriveled, soggy woman lurking at the bottom of it? She might grab their ankles.”

“Echo and Narcissus?” he suggested.

“How does that one go?”

“I’m no storyteller like Darryl. I don’t think I even remember it correctly.”

She squeezed his arm. “Just do your best.”

“Well, as I recall, Narcissus was a good-looking fellow. Beautiful, they said, and very vain. He spent all his time gazing at his own reflection in a pool. And Echo—she was a nymph—she was in love with him, I suppose. But she had a curse or something, and she had no words of her own. She was only able to repeat what others said to her. So he would sit by the pool, and she would just stand behind him quietly adoring. Until one day, Narcissus said to his own reflection, ‘I love you,’ and Echo was at long last able to say ‘I love you’ to him.”

“And what happened?”

“The vain fool never took notice of her. She wasted away to just an echo of her voice. And he stared at his own reflection until he went mad with frustration and stabbed himself.” Rhys chuckled.

Meredith didn’t. She didn’t say anything for a good long while.

They turned the street corner, and the way was more shadowed. The night had grown late, and they were alone. She clutched his arm in the dark.

“Merry? Are you well?”

“I used to watch you.”

They stopped walking.

“I used to watch you,” she repeated, turning to him by slow degrees. First her head pivoted, then her body. Finally, she lifted her chin and looked him in the face. “At the pool. When I was a girl. I used to follow you there in secret and hide behind the rocks.”

“What?” Rhys felt as though he’d had the breath knocked out of him. He was stunned. “Why would you do that?”

“It was wrong, I know it.” Her words were a rush. “I shouldn’t have. But I was young and … and curious.”

Curious? Anger swelled inside him. The same as it always did, when he picked himself up from a blow.

Grasping her by the elbow, he pulled her into a darkened alcove where a small flight of stairs met the street. “Just what did you see?”

“You.” She swallowed hard. Her lip trembled. “All of you.”

His heart stalled for a moment, until his vicious oath spurred it back to life.

That pool had been his refuge after a beating. His one safe place. There he would examine the damage to his body, soothe his wounds with the cool spring water, try to wash himself clean of the blood and shame. And to think, someone had been spying on him from the rocks, all that time? It churned his stomach. He’d been naked, in every way. Vulnerable. All those purpling bruises and raw, angry welts … she’d seen them. She’d seen them all.

It had taken him years to cover all the wounds his father had wrought. He’d healed from some and hidden the rest under other, newer scars. Or at least, he thought he’d hidden them. But he hadn’t. Meredith had seen them. Every single one. Even the ones he couldn’t have seen himself.

Adding to that mortification, he’d been an adolescent with natural male impulses, desperate for even a fleeting moment of pleasure …

Damn it to hell. So that’s how she knew he favored his left hand.

He dragged in a breath and choked on the air. “I can’t believe this.”

“Rhys, please.”

He turned away, disgusted. Disgusted with her, in some measure. But mostly disgusted by himself. Had he truly dreamed that Meredith would marry him? Willingly? Even women who hadn’t been witness to such shame were repelled by his touch.

He tugged at his cravat, pulling it loose from his throat. The air felt too thick to breathe. She knew. She knew everything.