“What? Why?”
“Plenty of work to be done today. I’ll need to hire the ponies, remember.”
“Rhys.” She put a hand to his chest, stopping him dead. “It’s early yet. And you’ve been working so hard all week. Take the morning to rest, enjoy yourself.”
“I enjoy working on the house.”
She gave him a coy look through lowered lashes. “More than you’d enjoy me?”
He scanned the room for his shirt and breeches. There they were, on a hook by the door. Damn it, why had he left them so far away? He nodded toward them. “Could you be so good as to hand me my clothes?”
She laughed. “No, I could not be so good. I’m beginning to wonder why I’m still wearing anything.”
She moved to draw her chemise down the other shoulder. He covered his face with one hand and groaned into it, debating the wisdom of giving her exactly what she deserved and rising from bed naked, crude erection and all. Instead, he pulled the sheet free and wrapped it around his waist as he stood, throwing the tail over his shoulder so it draped like an ancient Greek’s toga. It made him feel stately and philosophical, which helped in the battle to tamp down his lust.
He crossed the room to dress. “This isn’t going to happen. Not this morning. I apologize for taking the liberties I did.”
“Rhys,” she said as he pulled the shirt over his head. “There’s no need for apology. We’re both adults. We want each other. There’s no reason we shouldn’t have some fun. It needn’t mean anything more than that.”
Whipping the sheet from his waist, he reached for his breeches and pulled them on with impatient tugs before turning to face her. “Meredith. You’re my future wife. When I make love to you for the first time, it is damn well going to mean something. To me, at least.”
She blinked, obviously surprised. Dropping her gaze, she threaded her arms back through the sleeves of her shift and tied the ribbon with shaking fingers.
Rhys took a deep breath and composed himself. See? He was such a destructive brute. He’d barely touched her, and he was hurting her already.
“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.
She slid the fried eggs onto a plate, then placed it in front of her father, switching out the coddled ones for herself. After pouring herself a mug of coffee, she sat down across from him. For a few minutes, they ate in silence.
When the eggs had fortified her sufficiently and she felt up to addressing the subject, she said, “Father, listen to me. Please don’t get carried away with wild ideas. We can’t be sure Rhys is here to stay. He’s a gentleman having a lark pushing stones about the countryside. When the amusement wears off, what then? He may decide his ‘fate’ lies elsewhere and leave.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” She lowered her voice and tried again. “Haven’t you noticed, Father? Everyone who can leave this place, does.”
His brow creased. “When did you become so jaded, Merry?”
Ten years ago. When I married a man several years your senior, just to put a roof over our heads.
“I’m not jaded. I’m being realistic. Someone has to be.” Unfortunately, it seemed that someone must always be her. It certainly wouldn’t be Rhys, with his strange insistence on destiny. Would fate get the laundry done?
She pushed back from the table. “Mrs. Ware will look after anything else you need. I’d best gather the linens for Betsy.”
She went upstairs and gathered the bedclothes from each room, beginning with her own cramped, simple quarters, and continuing to her father’s slightly larger room, then proceeding through every guest room, whether they had been occupied in the past week or not. Meredith knew that people of means typically traveled with their own sheets, but she made it a point to dress the beds in clean linens, as a matter of aesthetics and pride.
She saved Rhys’s bedchamber for last, telling herself to invade the unoccupied room, whisk the sheets from the mattress, and make a quick retreat. But of course, the corner of one sheet snagged on the bedpost, and she had to climb atop the mattress to tug at it … and deuce it, the sheets were pitifully clean, when by all rights they should have been marked with passion.
And she was so very tired.
For a moment, she contemplated flopping onto the bed, snuggling into what lingered of his spicy male scent, and taking a long, luxuriant rest. She could all too easily imagine him lying next to her. She had a fair amount of practice imagining that. Except now, she had the benefit of much more information. She knew how his body fit against hers, solid in every place she was soft. She knew how his skin felt to the touch—weathered and sun-warmed atop his forearm, supple as kid on the inner side of his wrist.
She knew the taste of his kiss.
Oh, Rhys.
With a sharp yank, Meredith pulled the stubborn sheet free and roused herself from her fantasy. She understood dreams, sometimes even reveled in them. She wasn’t jaded, like her father had suggested. But she knew where to draw the boundary between dreams and reality.
The familiar titter of the washerwoman’s laughter floated up from the courtyard. Meredith tied the dirty linens in a bundle and went to the window, calling to catch Betsy’s attention. She stuffed the heap of linen through the window, and Betsy swooped quick to catch it in her basket—a move that earned her appreciative calls from a few of the men nearby.
“Excellent aim, Mrs. Maddox!” Darryl waved to her from the stables. The hounds yipped and wrestled at his feet.
Meredith smiled in return, but didn’t linger to join the fun. Instead she left the window to hurry downstairs. She’d caught sight of Robbie Brown rolling into the courtyard with his wheelbarrow of peat for the fires. She’d need to assemble his payment in coin and bread. After that, she’d speak with Mrs. Ware about the day’s meals, depending on what sort of meat the Farrell boys brought in.
She had an inn to run and a village to support.
When she entered the public room, she found it near full already, despite the early hour. A few travelers were taking a light meal before continuing on their journey. Village men were meeting over coffee to gossip and discuss trade. Even Harry and Laurence were here, eating breakfast.
She stopped in her tracks. What were the Symmonds boys doing here? The two of them never saw this side of noon, unless they’d been up all night keeping watch for Gideon. And last night, she hadn’t even needed to chase them out at closing time. They’d gone home unusually peaceably, at the early hour of half-ten.
“Rough night, boys?” Hands propped on her hips, she approached their table.
Harry looked up from a plate laden with eggs, bacon, rolls and jam. “Suppose you could say that.” He exchanged glances with Larry, and the two began chuckling.
