Twice Tempted by a Rogue (19 page)

“Oh, Lord,” Cora muttered. “It’s
him.”

A cheer rose up from the assembly. Meredith glimpsed Gideon by the entrance as the crowd parted around him. True to his word, he hadn’t interfered with the construction plans—he’d even helped on occasion, hauling wagonloads of lumber and straw, along with increased amounts of ale and foodstuffs to keep the workers fed. But Meredith suspected his increased presence in the neighborhood was mostly selfish in motivation. Gideon wanted to keep a watchful eye on his smuggled goods and his enemy.

Tonight, however, he appeared to be here to have fun. Wearing a devil-may-care grin, he worked the crowd with his usual charm.

“Don’t you like Mr. Myles?” she asked Cora.

“Doesn’t matter what I think of him. I can tell he doesn’t like me.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Struts around, orders me about.”

“You, girl,” Gideon called from across the room. “Look lively and pour me a brandy.”

“See?” Cora whispered. “And the way he stares at me …”

“They all stare at you.”

“Not like he does. I think he knows what I was. You know, before.”

Meredith bit her lip, wishing she’d never said anything to Gideon about Cora’s past. “Trust me,” she soothed, “it’s not that he doesn’t like you. He likes you too much, that’s all. You have the poor man turned arse over ears, and he’s scrabbling to pretend he’s still in control.”

Gideon approached the bar, eyeing Cora with a lustful gaze.

“What brings you in tonight?” Meredith asked.

“For one cause and another, I feel like celebrating.” His eyes never left the barmaid. “Thought I ordered a brandy.”

“I’ll pour it for you,” Meredith interjected. “Cora was just going off for her break.”

“Oh, was she now?” His jaw slid back and forth, as though he were chewing on a decision. “In that case …”

He turned, went to the largest table in the center of the room, and upended it with a spectacular crash. Meredith gasped, and Cora gave a little shriek. The men who’d been huddled on stools around it all leapt to their feet. Of course, this being Gideon, they didn’t argue back. But no one in the tavern—Meredith included—knew what the devil he meant to do.

Gideon shoved the now-vertical table to the far edge of the room, kicking the vacated stools to the sides as he went. Then he strode back to the bar. His boots echoed off the flagstones with each swaggering step. Meredith had known the man from childhood, but she’d never seen such determination in his eyes, nor such raw, open yearning.

“If Miss Dunn isn’t tending the bar”—in an explosion of agile strength, he vaulted the countertop and slid over to their side, landing between Meredith and Cora—“then she’s free to dance.” He swept her into his arms.

“Oh,
la.”
Cora’s cheeks blazed red.

Well, Meredith thought to herself. Wasn’t it romance the girl had been wanting?

“Tewkes!” Gideon called, his eyes never leaving Cora’s face.

In the corner, Darryl startled. “Aye, Mr. Myles?”

“That fiddle you’re holding. Play it.”

And play it he did, lurching into a wild reel of dubious melody.

“Now, then. Let’s see if you can keep step.” With a wide grin of encouragement, Gideon danced Cora right out from behind the bar and into the space he’d cleared at the center of the room.

The men crowding the perimeter roared their approval, hiding their envy with varying degrees of success. Meredith knew they were probably all wondering why they hadn’t come up with the idea themselves. Because they weren’t Gideon, of course. And even if they had thought of it, none of them were so ingenious, so crafty, or so devilishly arrogant as to try.

Gideon and Cora hadn’t made but a few sweeping twirls of the room, however, before the men’s collective intelligence drew a new conclusion. Cora might be taken as a partner, but there was one other woman in the room.

Several pairs of ale-merry eyes turned on Meredith at once.

“Oh, no,” she laughed as Skinner came toward her, his huge mitts outstretched. “No, I don’t dance.”

But Gideon’s outlandish display had emboldened them all. Despite her protests, Meredith found herself swept out from behind the bar and spun from partner to partner as Darryl’s frantic fiddling went on. The faster they turned her, the more gaily she laughed. In the center, Cora looked similarly flushed and breathless with enjoyment. Those who weren’t dancing clapped and stomped. Meredith began to fear the uproar would bring down the roof.

But then, Darryl’s fiddling died a quick, mournful death, and a fresh gust of night wind froze them all in place.

Rhys stood in the tavern door. Meredith briefly wondered if the man was capable of making anything other than a dramatic entrance. Was it his sheer size, or the intensity he exuded? It certainly wasn’t her imagination. Everyone in the room was transfixed.

Meredith rejoiced. His timing couldn’t have been better. Rhys could join the party, socialize with villagers, and perhaps even smooth things over with Gideon. Thanks to Cora, the smuggler was in good spirits tonight.

“Good evening, my lord.” Though everyone else in the room remained frozen, Meredith put out her hand and crooked her finger in invitation. “Come dance with me?”

“Another time perhaps.”

He staggered in from the night, wearing a strange expression on his face. His complexion was unnaturally pale. He looked just like the living phantom of Darryl’s stories.

With one hand pressed to the back of his head, he reeled to a halt. His glassy eyes shifted from Meredith to Cora and back. “Are either of you ladies handy with a needle?”

“Why?” Meredith asked.

“I’ve something that needs stitching up.” He pulled his hand from his head. In it, he grasped a wad of torn fabric, soaked through with blood.

At the sight, Cora shrieked. Gideon slipped a protective arm about her waist.

Rhys just stared at the bloodied rag for a moment, blinking.

Meredith started toward him. She knew that expression. Any tavernkeeper would.

He was going down, hard.

And before she could reach him, he did. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor, landing with a thud that rattled the candlesticks.

Chapter Thirteen

When Rhys came to for the second time that evening, he found himself slumped over a chair. The chair was backward. His legs straddled the seat, and his bare chest rested against the back.

Another moment, and he’d recognized his surroundings as the kitchen of the Three Hounds. He looked down to see two of the eponymous animals curled at his feet.

He blinked, and they became four.

“Ah.”

The dogs’ ears twitched at his low cry of pain. All eight of them.

Someone was digging a needle into his scalp. His eyes told him it couldn’t be Meredith, because two of her were currently adding peat to the fire.

The heat from the blaze swam before his eyes and warmed his bones, but the smoke made him gag. Rhys swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted was to retch in front of her.

“Oh, Rhys. Thank God you’re awake,” she said, noticing his next wince of pain. She took a cup from the table and waved it under his nose. “Local gin? Cures all ills.”

At the smell, his stomach clenched. He declined with a careful shake of his head. “Just a drop of water, if you would.”

She offered him a battered tin cup, and he managed to take it in one shaking hand and lift it to his lips. “Sorry I interrupted the party.”

Meredith pulled up a stool and sat next to him. “You gave us a fright. What happened?”

“Thought I saw a light up at the ruins. I went up to investigate.”

“Alone? Unarmed?”

He nodded and took another sip.

“And … what did you find?”

Was it a trick of his bashed-in brain, or did he discern a strange note in her voice? As though she already had in mind the answer to her question.

A jab to his scalp sent the thought right out of his head.

“Just one more, my lord.” Cora’s voice, thin with concentration. “Hold very still, if you please.”

Rhys gritted his teeth against the pain. He’d known enough pain in his life that it was sort of like crossing paths with an old acquaintance in the road. The hurt came, he acknowledged it with a jerk of his head, and then they parted ways. “Found nothing but shadows, and caught a rock to the head for my trouble.”

“Did you see who did it?”

He laughed a little. Only a little, because laughing hurt like the devil. “Can a man see the wind? Could I grab hold of the mist? A gust of wind must have knocked a stone free. Those old walls are crumbling more with every gale.”

“Are you certain there wasn’t someone there? Someone purposely trying to harm you?”

“And who would that be?”

“I don’t know,” she said, avoiding his gaze. Her lips quirked. “A ghost, perhaps? The moorfolk have their suspicions, you know.”

“Yes, and Gideon Myles has a passionate wish to see me dead. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

Meredith circled behind him. “You do have a nice hand with stitching,” she told Cora.

With a hint of pride in her voice, Cora replied, “My mum was a seamstress.”

“The bleeding’s stopped. Well done. Cora, you may go close up the tavern.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maddox.”

Once Cora had left, Rhys heard the trickle of water. Then he felt a cool cloth pressed to his aching pate. Her fingers teased through the hair at his brow, creating ripples of sweet pleasure to counteract the pain.

“Why do you keep your hair cut so short?” she asked. “You used to wear it long.”

“Started shearing it close in the army. Because of the lice. Now I’m just used to it.”

“Oh.” Her fingers stilled. “Well, it made Cora’s work easier tonight. No amount of stitching could save your shirt, though. Went straight into the fire.” She removed the damp cloth and applied a fresh one. “When did this happen? Gideon came in tonight just a short while before you did, and he was in an unusually good mood. That is, until you stumbled through that door. He seems to have disappeared now.”

“I don’t know how long I was unconscious. Could have been seconds, could have been hours. But I doubt Myles had anything to do with it. If he’d been responsible for this”—he raised his hand and gingerly explored the wound—“something tells me he would have made more effort to finish the job. And I didn’t see anyone. It was just an accident.”

“I thought you don’t believe in accidents.”

Before he could argue, liquid fire tore across his scalp.

He yelped with pain. “What the devil was that?”

“Local gin. I told you, it cures all ills.”

“Jesus. You might have given me warning at least.”

She made a sound in her throat. “Oh, I’ll give you a warning, Rhys St. Maur. Wind, fog, ghost, or man … it matters not. You shouldn’t be sleeping out on the moor alone. It’s not safe.”

Rhys rested his chin on the back of the chair as the pain receded and the room came into sharper focus. He liked having her fuss over him, loved the concern in her voice. “I’d say you don’t need to worry about me. But I rather enjoy it that you do.”

“Of course I worry.” She swabbed his neck and shoulders clean, then went to the washbasin and began to rinse her hands. “Just the same as I’d worry about Darryl or Cora or Father, or …”

“Really? Just the same as you’d worry about them?” He turned to face her and noticed that her hands were shaking as she washed. “Or do you worry about me differently?”

The soap slid from her grasp and landed in the basin with a splash. “Rhys …”

After a month of coming to understand Meredith Maddox, he knew better than to press the issue just now. He rose from his chair, slid a towel from its hook, and dried her hands himself. “You’re trembling,” he said. “Come sit close to the fire. Let me look after you for a bit.”

“You’re not fit to stand.”

“I’m not fit for much of anything.” He gave her his best stab at a cavalier grin. “Hasn’t stopped me yet.”

After seeing her seated by the fire, he took up the still-steaming kettle. “I see Cora’s made tea.” He poured her a cup.

She took the cup from his hand and lifted it to her lips. “I’d prefer the gin.”

“I know you would. And I’d prefer you didn’t drink quite so much of it.”

Her eyes flashed at him over the teacup’s rim.

“What?” he asked. “You’re concerned for me. I’m not allowed to worry about you?”

She swallowed her mouthful of tea. “You should stay here tonight. With me.”

God. He didn’t think any part of his body could throb more forcefully than his wounded pate. But he was proven wrong.

With a rough sigh, he drew up a stool and sat across from her. “What are we to each other?”

She blinked at him. “You want to discuss the state of our relationship?”

He nodded.

“What sort of man enters this sort of conversation willingly?”

“A man who’s tired of sleeping out on the moor alone.” And not because he was worried about falling rocks or ghosts or Gideon Myles, but because he wanted her. He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in his life, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay away.

“We’re friends, Rhys. And I think I’ve made it clear that we could be … closer friends, whenever you wish.”

“Closer friends,” he repeated thoughtfully, reaching out to catch a loose strand of her hair. “How close?”

She set aside her tea, then inched forward on her chair. His heart began to pound, just from her nearness.

“Very close,” she whispered, leaning in. Her lips brushed his. “Body to body.” Another kiss. “Skin to skin.”

He couldn’t stop himself. He slid both hands to her waist and pulled her into his lap. She straddled his hips, locking her arms around his neck. Their mouths came together, open and willing and ready to meld into one.

And even though his eyes were closed, for a moment Rhys felt like his double vision had returned—because her hands were
everywhere
. There had to be more than two of them. He felt her grasping at his shoulders, cupping his face, clutching his neck. Not to be outdone, he cinched his arms around her and pulled her flush against his bare chest, anchoring her there with his forearms while his hands slid up to her hair.

Ah, her hair. So abundant, so soft. He thrust his hands in that thick, dark mane, sifting the strands through his fingers, and then grasping big handfuls close to her scalp and twisting, just a little, to repay her for that trick with the gin.

She moaned around his tongue. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she rocked her hips.

And now it was his turn to moan.

She made a slow circle with her pelvis, grinding against his arousal. Much as he hated relinquishing his grip on her hair, he slid his hands to her hips and grabbed tight, dragging her over his hard length again. He needed this, he needed more of it … He just needed, so damn much. To feel good, for a change. To make her feel good, too.

He had a fresh head wound, and she’d been working hard from dawn to dusk and beyond—but all he could think of was getting under her skirt and working her all night long.

She writhed against him as they kissed, her motions increasingly frantic. He guided her hips with his hands, pressing her closer, increasing the friction, setting a firm, brisk rhythm.

Close friends
, had she said? Well, Rhys was getting all kinds of close. And judging by the little mewling sounds she made in the back of her throat, so was she. Now it was just a race to the finish, and by God he wanted her to win. He wanted to give her pleasure even more desperately than he craved his own release. And he craved his own release more than he wanted air.

With a sudden gasp, she pulled back. “We can’t, not here,” she panted. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He sat stunned, open-mouthed, his lungs seizing and his loins painfully bereft of contact.

“Come along.” She tugged at him.

After a moment, he released a curse and a sigh. Ten seconds ago, if she’d shoved aside her petticoats and hiked up her skirts, he would have buried himself in her warm, wet body without a moment’s hesitation. But a few seconds of separation and the renewed pounding in his head, combined with the prospect of that long flight of stairs … There were just enough obstacles to his bounding lust that his tortoise-like intelligence managed to catch up. “It isn’t enough.”

“I know,” she said. “I know. Too many clothes between us. Let’s go upstairs.” She kissed his neck.

His hands went to her shoulders. “No,” he repeated, pushing her back. “It still won’t be enough. Body to body, skin to skin. It’s not enough. I don’t want … friendship without clothing. I need a marriage.”

She traced the line of his jaw. “Why must you always be thinking of the future? Just think of tonight.”

Damn his eyes, how ironic. For so many years he’d never considered the future. Not once. In fact, he’d spent a great deal of effort and spilled a great deal of blood—his and others’—trying to ensure there wouldn’t
be
a future, not for him. And now … now he had plans and desires, and a half-built cottage up on that slope. A future. He couldn’t simply give that up, collapse it all to one fleeting night of pleasure with no promise of more.

“I
am
thinking of tonight.” His voice was a low rasp. “I am thinking—in shameless detail—of taking you upstairs, stripping you bare, and doing unspeakable things to you all night long. Touching you everywhere. Tasting you everywhere. And I know, as sure as I know my own name, it still won’t be enough. I will want you again tomorrow, and then the day after that, and again and again and again. That’s why I need those vows. I need to hear you say you’re mine forever before I have you at all. Because I know I will never, ever get enough.”