Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

Darryl Tewkes was organizing? Rhys groaned. God help them all.

His face grim with resolve, Rhys headed straight for the inn. Meredith followed a step behind, chilled to the bone with fear. Even if Cora were a complete stranger, she would have worried for her safety in this situation. But in just a few short weeks, she’d grown surprisingly fond of the girl. If they didn’t find her …

This was her reward for leaving on holiday. This village could not function without her. She should have known something horrid would happen. She should have never left. Rhys flung open the door to the public room, announcing his presence with a bang. Darryl, standing atop the bar, trailed off mid-sentence.

And then, a small miracle occurred. For the first time since Rhys’s arrival in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, the assembled men at the Three Hounds greeted him with a unanimously warm reception. Scattered words of thanksgiving rose up from the crowd, along with a hearty cheer. Relief softened every face in the room. Even the hounds came scrambling out from the kitchen, their claws clicking and sliding over the flagstones as they tumbled over one another in the race to nip at his boots.

And then all assembled went quiet, awaiting direction from their lord.

At some point over the past two months, Rhys had earned not only the respect of every soul in the village, but their trust, as well. In any other circumstance, Meredith’s heart would have warmed to see it.

“Lamps,” he said to Meredith. “We’ll need lamps. As many as you can find. Torches, if you run out.”

She nodded. After sending Darryl to collect the lamps from upstairs and the barn, she set about the task of filling and lighting them. From the storeroom, she could overhear all the goings-on in the tavern, where, with brusque, military authority, Rhys was rousing the men to action. He barked questions and waited for answers, divided the men into pairs and assigned each team an area to search. When the men came tromping through, single file, for their lamps, she and Darryl had them ready.

“Tewkes, you’re with us. We’re headed down the lane.” Skinner jerked his head, and Darryl picked up a lamp and followed.

Rhys was last to come through. “I’m going up to the high moor. If she made it to the cottage, she probably had the good sense to stay there.”

“You’re going alone?” Meredith asked. The others had already departed in groups. Naturally, Rhys would have saved the most harrowing and perilous section of the area for himself.

He nodded. “Stay here, in case she comes back.”

“Bollocks to that,” Meredith said, lighting another lamp. “I’m going with you. I know the lay of the land better than you do. You’re not going into that mist on your own.” Before he could get the objection past his lips, she added, “Father’s here, if she returns. Just let me retrieve my boots and cloak.”

His jaw tightened with uncertainty. She held his piercing gaze, refusing to flinch.

Finally, he gave her a curt nod of assent. “Hurry.”

She was up and down the back stairs in the space of a minute. Another few moments more, and she’d wrestled into her thickest boots and exchanged the courtesan’s traveling cape for her own cloak of sturdy brown wool. “I’m ready.”

They headed through the tavern door and forged out into the gloom.

It was an eerie sight—the men departing for the search. The cluster of lamps dispersing; the amber balls of light swallowed into the misty dark, one by one. The cries “Hullo!” and “Ho, there!” and “Cora, love!”—these too grew fainter and less frequent as the searchers scattered in every possible direction.

Meredith and Rhys began their slow ascent to the high moor. With visibility so poor, the ancient monks’ path was the only safe route, though longer. The higher they climbed, the thicker the mist became, until Meredith felt as though she were swimming through milk. The lamps served only to illuminate the fog itself, giving it ghostly fingers and a deceptively comforting, cottony texture. They could see no more than a few paces in front of them.

“Cora! Cora, can you hear us?”

They took turns calling out into the darkness. Between the exertion of the climb and the strain of shouting and the oily smoke of the lamp burning her nostrils, Meredith’s throat was raw by the time they crested Bell Tor. They had a choice here: Veer off toward the cottage or head straight for the ruins of Nethermoor Hall.

“Cottage first,” Rhys said, answering her unspoken question.

They made their way over to the flat, picking up pace as they did. The even ground made for faster progress, as did the fact that in building the cottage, Rhys had cleared the area of stones.