Naturally, she’d refused him. As well she should. And she’d mustered the generosity to knock on his door and grant him a sort of absolution, but she hadn’t been brave enough to look him in the face as she gave it. Still, he couldn’t resist stealing a touch.
God, her skin was pure joy to touch. Fresh and smooth, like the underside of a leaf.
One glance in the washstand mirror this morning had revealed his lunacy. He was a hideous, cut-up wreck of a man. What could a woman like her possibly want with a fellow like him? Except money, perhaps. Not that she was the type to accept coin for her favors, but he didn’t want her thinking he was the type to pay for them. He didn’t use women that way anymore.
No, she deserved an apology. He wasn’t especially good at making amends, but he’d do what he could. Greet her with a civil good morning, thank her for her hospitality, and pay her triple what he owed. And then he’d ride straight out of the village and never trouble her again.
The gelding picked its way along the narrow, well-trod path. It wasn’t the most direct route back to the village, but it was the safest, as evidenced by the cross-shaped stone markers placed by monks centuries ago. A man who wandered off the safe path risked stumbling into a bog and becoming trapped in waist-deep peat and muck. As a child, Rhys had known the lay of these slopes better than he’d known his ciphers, but he didn’t trust his memory enough to risk miring his horse today.
It was full morning by the time he descended into the small valley that cradled Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. Sunlight chased the mist into dark hollows and nooks. Considering the harshness of the surrounding terrain, this truly was a well-favored spot. A brisk stream had carved this gorge over millennia, and aside from the ready water source, the valley offered some protection from the brutal Dartmoor winds. The village even claimed a few dozen trees to its name, and they grew reasonably straight—an unusual occurrence on the windswept moors.
As he reunited with the main road and entered the village proper, however, Rhys noticed what he hadn’t been able to see last night. Very little had changed in this village. Too little had changed, as a matter of fact. There were no new buildings. Neglected cottages had fallen into disrepair. Just as Meredith had told him, the village had not prospered in the Ashworths’ absence. A thorn of guilt pricked him deep inside.
He turned toward the inn. Like most buildings in town, its foundations were stone, but its walls were fashioned from cob, a cured mixture of earth and straw. Slate shingles gave it a sounder roof than the usual thatch. With a gleaming coat of fresh limewash and green-painted shutters, the inn was by far the best-kept structure in the town, and the largest. Even at this early hour, the courtyard buzzed with activity. It was clear to Rhys that the Three Hounds was not only the physical center of the village, but its social and commercial center as well. And little Merry Lane now managed it all. Remarkable.
In the courtyard, he dismounted and walked his gelding toward the stables. A hunched figure rushed to meet him, hobbling with the aid of a wooden crutch.
“Lord Ashworth! By God, it is you. Merry told me you’d come back, but I could hardly believe her.” The old man leaned on his crutch and tipped his hat, revealing a flash of silver hair beneath.
“Mr. Lane,” Rhys said, catching his breath. “It’s … it’s good to see you.”
Only it wasn’t. It was hell to see George Lane as he was now—bent, aged, crippled and scarred. In Rhys’s memory, he’d remained a man in his prime of life, an expert horseman gifted with an even temper and a steady hand. The Nethermoor stables had been Rhys’s refuge in his youth, and Lane had always been kind to him. When fire broke out in the stables that night, it was George Lane who dragged Rhys’s barely conscious form from the blaze. Once Rhys was safe, the stable master worked valiantly to save the horses. He succeeded in a few cases, but failed in most. During his last rescue attempt, a burning rafter had fallen on his leg.
Rhys had been sent to relations in Yorkshire immediately following the fire, and in the years since he’d never so much as written to inquire after his old friend’s condition. Probably because he’d suspected, rightly, that his friend’s condition would be just this. He was maimed for life.
That little thorn of guilt was swiftly growing tendrils and vines, twining his innards in a stranglehold.
“I’ll take the horse in.” Smiling, the old man balanced his crutch under one arm and reached for the reins with the other. “You go on in and have breakfast.”
Rhys reluctantly handed him the reins. He wished Lane would allow him to do the labor of unsaddling and grooming the horse, but he wouldn’t insist. He’d known many soldiers crippled in battle, and he’d learned to never second-guess their abilities.
Besides, George Lane couldn’t be too hampered by his injuries. He still kept an immaculate horse barn, from what Rhys could see as he followed him to the stable door.
“No need to come in,” Lane called to him, holding him off with an outstretched hand. “You know I’ll take excellent care of him.”
“I know,” Rhys said, wondering why the man didn’t seem to want him in his stables. Well, it could have something to do with the fact that his last stables had burned to the ground. If he were George Lane, Rhys wouldn’t trust himself in there either, come to think of it.
He propped his shoulder against the wide post of the doorway and spoke into the darkened interior. “It’s a large barn you’ve got here. Your daughter told me it’s mostly pack ponies you keep.”
“That’s right,” Lane replied. “I started breeding them a decade ago, from a few wild ponies I brought in off the moor. They’re well-trained now, and hardy. We rent them out as they’re needed, to local farmers and such.”
Rhys shook his head. What a waste of the man’s skill. “I wonder that you don’t keep posting horses.” To expedite travel, private and public coaches changed horses frequently. If the Three Hounds offered posting horses for hire and exchange, the inn could draw a great deal more business.
“I’d like to,” the man answered, “but I’ve no suitable breeding stock. Hard to gather that kind of coin, especially in a village where folk pay their debts with eggs more often than shillings.”
“I can imagine.” Rhys startled as something prodded the back of his knee. He wheeled to find a pair of long-eared hounds nosing at his boots. “Go on,” he told them, feinting a kick. “I’ve no scraps for you.”
Though oddly, he could have sworn he smelled fresh-baked bread.
“They’re just being friendly,” a feminine voice said. “It’s me they’re after.”
Meredith stood before him, both arms wrapped around a large woven basket. A bounty of yeast rolls peeked out from beneath a printed muslin cloth. Rhys’s stomach churned with awakened hunger.
Damn, his whole body was churning with awakened hunger.
“You’re still here,” she said. “Thought perhaps you’d left.”
“I did. And then I came back.”
“I don’t know how this inn got its name,” she said, watching the dogs nip the tassel of his boot. “Maddox only ever kept two hounds. When he was drunk, he used to tell smart-mouthed travelers the third hound was in the pie.” She spared him a fleeting glance before calling past him into the stables. “Father, I’ve told you, leave that work to Darryl. You’re not supposed to be straining your heart.”
“I’m brushing down the finest gelding in Devonshire. It’s a pleasure, not a strain. And Darryl’s gone to fetch water.”
Rhys heard her release a frustrated sigh. Her brow creased with concern. “Father, you can’t—”
Rhys laid a hand to her shoulder and drew her away from the door. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t tell a man what he can’t do. He’ll only be more determined to prove you wrong.”
Her face couldn’t decide what expression to take. Her brow was more than a mite annoyed with his interference, and her cheeks were turning an embarrassed pink. But her lips twitched at the corners as though she might cry, and her eyes …
Her eyes were just beautiful. They made him too stupid to hold his next thought. If it hadn’t been for the mountain of bread between them, he would have embraced her then and there.
Embraced her, of all things. What an idea. Where were these fancies coming from? Meredith Maddox was a beautiful woman, and there was no denying that he craved her body more than he craved a peaceful night’s sleep. Any man with a pulse would feel the same. But this wasn’t just lust. He’d never experienced such longing simply to take a woman in his arms and keep her there. He’d wanted to kiss her last night, and he’d never been much for kissing at all. It smacked of romance and innocence and all those other things that had nothing to do with him. His past encounters with women had borne a remarkable resemblance to his fights—impulsive, brutish, and never very satisfying.
What he wanted with Meredith was different. This strong, self-sufficient woman had awakened a tender impulse inside him. He was responsible for the state of her life. For the state of this village, in fact. It was his fault that it was barely dawn, and she’d already been working hard for hours. His fault that she had to play caretaker to an invalid father by day and constable to a band of unruly drunkards by night. Every hobbled step her father took, each tiny callus on her hand, every spot of blood on her dainty white tablecloth … all of it was his own damn fault.
“There was a doctor last year, passing through,” she said softly, gazing unfocused at the bread. “He examined Father in exchange for free room and board. His heart’s weak, the man said. If he doesn’t slow down …”
Rhys gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “I’ve known your father almost as long as you have, Merry. Horsemanship is in his blood. It is his life. He’d rather die than slow down.”
“I know. I know it, but …” She looked up at him and gave a one-shouldered shrug, as though he’d understand without any words.
And he did. Suddenly, Rhys understood everything. The reason he’d survived the past fourteen years and finally made his way back to this village. The reason he couldn’t leave it now. The way to redeem his whole wasted life.
It all made perfect, unquestionable sense.
“Isn’t it Sunday?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied in a bewildered tone.
He looked about the courtyard. “Why aren’t the people in church? Where’s the vicar?”
“There’s no vicar anymore. He left twelve years ago, when your father ceased paying his living. A curate comes out once a month from Lydford to hold services.”
He swore softly. This made things a touch more difficult.
She gave him a cheeky smile. “What is it? Feel the need to confess your sins?”
“Bloody hell. That would take years.” And he didn’t particularly want forgiveness. No, he just wanted to make things right. “Confession isn’t required, is it?”
“Required for what?”
“Marriage.”
A roll tumbled from her basket, and the hounds scrabbled over it at their feet.
When she spoke, her voice was strangely brittle. “You’re engaged to be married?”
“Not yet. I will be, soon.” Before breakfast, he hoped. God, he was hungry. If she lost another roll from that basket, it would never reach the hounds.
“And you intend to marry your bride here? In Buckleigh-in-the-Moor?”
“I know the village church isn’t the grandest, but it’ll do. Wouldn’t make sense to go elsewhere, now would it? Travel would be hard on your father.”
She gave him a look of utter bemusement. “You wish to be married here. In this remote village. Simply so my father can be a guest at your wedding.”