The longer he stared at her, however, the further the smile faded from her face.
In a nervous gesture, she moistened her lips with her tongue. Then she gave herself a little shake and announced to the room, “Home time, gentlemen.”
The last few stragglers roused themselves from their stools and lumbered out the door, grousing as they went. One of them yawned, and Rhys could not help but do the same.
“You must be exhausted,” Meredith said briskly, wiping her hands on her apron after straightening the last of the chairs and latching the door. “I’m sorry to have kept you up so late, blathering on about my silly plans.”
“They’re not silly plans. They’re quite sensible ones.”
Together they moved toward the back staircase. And even though they were plans she’d never need to put into action, he admired the cleverness and spirit behind them. He admired those qualities even more than he admired her lovely hair and eyes—and that was saying something. “You truly do have it all worked out, don’t you?”
“I do. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished with the Three Hounds so far, but I know I could do so much more.”
“I’m certain you could.”
“So you see …” She swallowed hard as they stopped at the door to his room. “The village, the inn, my father, me … we’ll all be just fine without you. You can leave, Rhys. Go live your life, and leave us be.”
Ignoring her words, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. He wasn’t going anywhere. “God, you’re beautiful.”
The words just tumbled out, and Rhys had no idea where they’d come from. He didn’t recall ever speaking those words to a woman before. Damn, everything with Meredith felt new. Or maybe he was just so green.
The gin. He blamed the gin. Liquor always made him maudlin and impulsive.
“Why, Rhys St. Maur,” she said, grinning, “was that flirtation?”
“No. I don’t know how to flirt.”
“Come now, be truthful.” She reached for the edge of his shirt collar and played with it coyly. Her voice husky, she said, “All this talk of marriage and destiny and fate—it’s all just a ploy to get into my bed, isn’t it?”
Was he really that drunk, or did she sound hopeful?
“No,” he said honestly. “No, it’s not.”
Though Holy God, the very idea of taking her to bed had him reeling. Pictures filled his mind. Wild, depraved pictures, like the etchings soldiers carried in their boots and bartered for greater value than gold. And thanks to the damned flames of gin licking away inside him, Rhys was powerfully tempted to act those pictures out, in the flesh. In her flesh. He wanted to find her softest, most secret place and lodge happily there, all night long.
Vulnerability flickered across her eyes. “Don’t you want me?”
Hell. Of course he wanted her. He wanted her so badly, his ears ached from clenching his jaw so tight. He wanted her so much, he could have pushed against this doorpost like Samson and brought down the whole damned inn.
But he’d made that mistake yesterday—pushing too hard, too fast.
He forced a casual smile. “I’m saving myself for the wedding night.”
Her burst of surprised laughter drew his gaze to her mouth, and there his gaze gladly lingered. She had lovely lips. A dusky pink shade, richer red toward the center. The lower one plumper than the top. Hers was a pretty face, but not a soft one. Her cheekbones sat high and proud. She had a determined set to her brow and jaw, and her chin tapered to a decisive point. But her mouth was a soft, lush, vulnerable curve in the midst of all that strength and resolve.
He wanted—no, needed—to taste it.
“No,” he whispered, standing straight and framing her delicate face in his big, gnarled hands. “I won’t take you to my bed just yet. But I’ll take that kiss tonight.”
Chapter Seven
And take it he did, before Meredith even had time to draw breath. He pressed his lips to hers quickly, as if she might change her mind if he gave her the chance, or as if he might change his. The timing was off, and their lips mashed together at the wrong angle, and her eyes were still open.
For a moment, she felt fourteen again. Awkward, uncertain. Painfully aware of everything but the joy of being kissed.
But then he tilted her face a degree, and his mouth shifted a fraction against hers. She remembered to close her eyes.
And suddenly, they fit. Suddenly, this kiss was everything. And she still felt fourteen again, but in that blissful, giddy way of tumbling headlong down a rocky slope with no thought for caution, no purpose but to chase exhilaration and joy.
Rhys St. Maur was kissing her.
And it was wonderful.
They remained that way for an improbably long time, mouths pressed together in tender innocence. He made no move to part her lips or explore her mouth with his tongue, though she would have gladly allowed it. If he’d wished, he could have taken everything. But he didn’t even try. He just kissed her softly, over and over again. The corners of her mouth. Her top lip, then the bottom. Sweet little sips of gin and heat.
When at last he pulled back, she instinctively raised her hands to cover his, pressing them tight against her face and forbidding him to release her. The thought struck her that she could have been touching him all the while. She could have been stroking his hair, or smoothing her palms over the hard planes of his shoulders and chest.
Damn, she was a fool.
But she settled for this, dragging her thumbs over the back of his hands, tracing the delicate crooks between his fingers, and finally encircling his thick, corded wrists as she opened her eyes.
“That was …” He looked down at her with a strangely puzzled expression. “That was nice.”
“Yes. Quite.”
He slid his hands from her face. She reluctantly released his wrists.
With a self-conscious clearing of the throat, he reached behind him, groping for the latch. “Well, it’s late. I suppose I’d better be …”
“Wait.”
To hell with feeling fourteen again. And to the devil with “nice.”
With decisive speed, Meredith grabbed him by the collar, hauled herself up on tiptoe, and kissed him, hard.
He stumbled back against the door, and the moment of shock jarred his lips apart. She slid her tongue straight through that window of opportunity. That was all it took. Now he really, truly kissed her back. Mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. Desire evident.
Yes, at last. This was what she’d been wanting—this frenzy of wild tastes and rough textures. The slick heat of his tongue, the scrape of his whiskers, his heady male scent. Rhys St. Maur, the man. And her body responding to his, all woman.
Growling deep in his throat, he slid his hands around her waist and fisted them in the back of her dress, lifting her up and against him. Her whole body pressed flush to his. Her breasts squashed flat against his chest, and she could feel every deliciously solid inch of him.
Until, with a regretful moan, he lowered her to the ground.
“Well?” Her voice was breathless, but she hoped her eyes communicated the proposition with greater success.
“Yes, I’m well,” he said, nodding absently. “Very well indeed.”
She laughed softly, clinging to his neck. There was no doubt that Rhys St. Maur was all man, but in rare moments he had this sweet, uncertain, boyish look on his face. It endeared him to her all the more.
She bit her bottom lip and swayed gently in invitation. “I meant, what do you think? About tonight.”
“I think”—he unlaced her arms from his neck and squeezed her hands before releasing them—“that tonight, I’ll have very vivid dreams.”
To her disappointment, he found the door latch and slid it open. Before stepping inside his bedchamber, he dropped one last kiss on her cheek. “And for once, I might enjoy them.”
Five mornings later, Meredith sat in that same bedchamber, watching Rhys sleep. The first rays of dawn seeped in through the window. Gray, watery light, not yet gold. The white linens reflected it with a fuzzy glow, but the rest of the room remained in murky shadow.
A cock crowed in the courtyard. From the bed, Rhys answered with a low, soft snore.
Meredith released her breath and quietly adjusted her posture on the chair, just hoping the sun would rouse itself before Rhys did.
She hated resorting to this kind of spying, but she couldn’t think of any other way to assess his … health. Over the past week, she’d developed a powerful suspicion that Rhys had suffered a war injury to his male anatomy. Why else would he have resisted that clear invitation the night they’d kissed? Not to mention the subtler ones she’d issued every evening since.
Part of her couldn’t believe he was even still here. Contrary to all her arguments and the application of common sense, he’d forged ahead with this cottage plan. Every night she’d thrown him flirtatious glances in the bar. Surely he’d come to his senses and leave any morning, she reasoned. She wanted one night with him first.
Last night had been the final indignity. He’d come in from another day of hard work up on the moors. Damp from the pump, but still glowing with the day’s exertion. Wildly attractive. He’d sat down at his usual table, eaten his usual three plates of food whilst enduring the suspicious glares and muttered curses of the villagers. Then he’d approached her at the bar to apprise her of the day’s progress.
“Finished fitting together the plinth today,” he’d said. “Now that the foundation’s done, I’ll start preparing the earth for cob. I’ll need to hire ponies from you tomorrow to haul up a load of straw. If all goes well, tomorrow I’ll be able to start the first rise.” He’d yawned the grizzled, lazy-yet-lethal yawn of a lion. “I think I’ll turn in early tonight, unless you need me.”
Oh, she needed him, all right. She’d wanted to lean over the bar and kiss that sleepy mouth, right in front of the whole room. The sweet, bloody fool was building a house of stone and earth with his own two hands. For her father. How could she not want to kiss him? How could she not want to do far more than that?
Instead, she’d whispered shamelessly, “Shall I come to your room after I lock up?”
And though he’d sucked in his breath, and his eyes had fair blazed with desire, he’d bid her a polite good evening and retreated upstairs. Alone.
Something had to be wrong down there. Red-blooded men—and Rhys was a fine specimen of a red-blooded man in his virile prime—just didn’t walk away from invitations that obvious.
Gradually, the room warmed with weak, yellow light. She blinked, bringing the picture before her into focus.
His huge frame overflowed the bed—the same bed that would have felt lonely and half-empty if she’d slept in it alone. He slept on his side, linens bunched about his legs and waist. From the glimpse of bare chest and leg, she could tell he was likely nude. But drat it, it was impossible to see what she needed to see from this vantage.
She rose from the room’s single chair and crept toward the bed, hoping to get a closer look. Then she froze in place as he emitted a harsh, guttural sound. It was the sound of a man dealing a blow. Or taking one.
He thrashed suddenly, tangling in the bedsheets as his elbow jabbed the pillow. “No,” she heard him moan. Then more forcefully, “No.”
She stood there, immobile, not knowing what to do. Should she wake him? Did she dare? If he were reliving some fight or battle in his dreams, he might lash out at her in confusion. Perhaps she should just leave him. No one ever suffered long-term effects from a nightmare. If he woke on his own and saw her there, he might feel violated or ashamed.
His breathing came fast and shallow now. He ceased wrestling the pillow and flipped onto his back, his fists clenched at his sides. They were the size of millstones. His teeth were gritted, the tendons strained and bulging along his neck. A low, inhuman growl rumbled from his throat and forced its way through his teeth.
