Twice Tempted by a Rogue

Page 9

He had to move on, and so did she.
Chapter Five
Straining under the midday sun, Rhys hefted a chunk of lichen-crusted moorstone from its bed of gorse. A bead of sweat trickled down his bare back as he carried the rock up the sloping grade, then tossed it to the ground with a grunt, nudging it into place with his boot. “Do you think it’s big enough?” he asked, wiping his brow and squinting at the ground. The stones formed almost three sides of a rectangle now. A few more hours’ work, and he’d have a completed outline for the foundation. “Maybe I ought to make it wider.”
“It’s already near as big as the inn,” George Lane said. “Thought this was meant to be a cottage.”
“It is.” The finest damn cottage ever built.
And once Meredith saw it, she’d know he was serious about being here to stay. About marrying her. Not that he could claim to be surprised by her initial reluctance. As a suitor, he had little to recommend him aside from a bit of money in the bank. He surely wouldn’t convince her on the basis of his fine looks and pretty manners. But once she saw the proof of his commitment to rebuilding the Hall and the village, she’d change her mind. She was a clever woman, and she understood when a situation would work out to her benefit. She’d married Old Maddox, after all, and Rhys would never believe that had been a love match.
“Where do you plan to put the door?” Lane asked, limping his way around the nearly finished rectangle.
“Over there.” Rhys jerked his head as he hefted another stone. “Facing northeast.”
“Away from the ruins, then? Well, I don’t blame you for keeping that sight at your back.”
“Away from the wind,” Rhys countered.
The old man’s eyebrows rose. “As you say.”
Rhys chucked his stone in line with the others. He knew superstitions ran deep as granite here on Dartmoor, but surely George Lane didn’t believe any of Darryl Tewkes’s absurd ghost stories? “I mean it,” he said, wiping his brow. “That flat there”—he pointed to a level area nearby—“is the most logical place for new stables. The stable master’s cottage ought to face it, don’t you think? And I’m guessing you’d rather be upwind.”
“Stables?” Leaning on his crutch, Lane slid the soft felt cap from his head and twisted it between his old, scarred hands. “You mean to rebuild the stables?”
“I mean to rebuild it all,” Rhys told him evenly. “Starting with the stables. I’m a member of a club, you see. It’s called the Stud Club. Membership includes breeding rights to a stallion called Osiris.”
“Osiris.” The old man’s hands began to shake. “The Osiris, the great thoroughbred champion?”
“So you’ve heard of him.”
“Heard of him?” Lane laughed. “In his prime, the sporting papers were filled with nothing but talk of that stallion. I heard he’d been sold to a lord, though, some time back.” He scratched the back of his neck. “What was his name …?”
“Harcliffe. Leo Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe. He’s dead now.”
“Oh. Did you know him?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend, then.”
Rhys shrugged. “We weren’t close. Be sorry for him, not me.” He walked some distance away and propped his boot on another chunk of stone, rocking it back and forth to work it loose from the soil. This one was rather square, he noted, and not too firmly stuck—he’d wager it belonged to the old house. Must have tumbled this way after the fire.
He decided to leave it be.
He moved on to another rock instead and gave it a swift kick, jarring it loose. “Anyway, as fate would have it, I now control a one-fifth share in that stallion, and I plan to breed a few mares to him next year. I’ll be needing stables. And a stable master.”
“Do you …” Lane paused and sniffed. “Do you mean me?”
“Are there any other candidates around?” Rhys made a show of turning his neck, surveying the barren landscape.
Releasing a slow, wheezing breath, George Lane picked the largest boulder available and sat down, sliding his crutch to a rest beside him. “I’m crippled.”
“Yes, I know.” Of course he knew. That much was Rhys’s own damn fault. “I mean to hire grooms, of course. You won’t need to do the heavy work, merely supervise. There’s no one else in these parts experienced in keeping and training horses of that caliber.”
Lane swore softly under his breath. But when Rhys stole a glance at him, he could see the old man was smiling.
“Posting horses,” Lane said suddenly. “Don’t suppose you’d be of the mind to breed some of those? ’Twould be a great help to Merry, with the inn.”
“Don’t see why not.” Rhys ceased working at the stone and crossed to sit near the old man. “But you won’t have to worry about your daughter any longer, either. That’s why I’m making the cottage so large.”
The old man frowned. “Must be the old age, Rhys. I’m not following you.”
“This house is for you, eventually. But in the short term, all three of us will have to call it home. While the Hall is being rebuilt.”
“The three of us?”
“You, me, and Meredith.” Best have out with it now, Rhys figured. The old man would find out soon. “Mr. Lane, I’m going to marry your daughter.”
He had to hand it to fate. Wedding Meredith was a perfect solution. Beautiful in its simplicity, just like the cloudless sky above. With that exchange of vows, Rhys would take responsibility for not only Meredith’s well-being, but that of her father and the village, too. He could see it all now. With the stables, they’d raise both racing and draft horses, to be sold for a profit. Once he rebuilt Nethermoor Hall, he’d be able to provide employment for half the village and give custom to the rest. The inn could continue, he supposed … they’d simply hire an innkeeper to look after it.
Rhys had so many plans spooling through his mind—years’ worth of them. Perhaps enough to fill decades. It was a foreign sensation, planning more than a day in advance. It felt good. He’d heard gentlemen of his station, fellow heirs to the peerage, refer to their estate responsibilities as burdens. Oddly enough, today Rhys felt markedly lighter.
Lane stared at him in silence for some time. First one bushy eyebrow rose, then two. “Marry her. You plan to make Meredith your wife.”
“Yes.” It was more like the universe had planned it for him, but Rhys wouldn’t quibble.
“Have you told Merry that?”
“I have.”
“Well, then.” Lane cocked his head, peering into the distance behind Rhys’s shoulder. “That would explain why she looks so flummoxed.”
Rhys turned on his heel to see Meredith cresting the rise, striding purposefully toward them with a basket threaded over her arm. The wind pulled strands of her dark hair loose, whipping them in all directions. As she drew near, she impatiently brushed the stray locks aside.
“Just what is going on here?” She addressed her question to Rhys.
“I’m building a house.”
“A house? Whose house?”
“Our house. Well, at least a temporary one. Just a stone cottage. It’ll take time to rebuild Nethermoor Hall. Years, maybe. I’ll need to hire an architect, master craftsmen. So I reasoned we’ll live here while it’s under construction, and afterward, it can be your father’s.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the flat. “We’ll be building the stables just over there, you see.”
She stared blankly at the direction he’d indicated. Then her gaze fell to the unfinished rectangle of stones.
Perhaps she didn’t see.
He said defensively, “I know it doesn’t look like much yet. Just give me a few days. Once I start on the walls, you’ll have a much better picture.”
“You’re planning to build an entire house by yourself? With your own two hands?”
“Well … yes. If I have to. I’d prefer to hire local men to help, but after that display this morning, I gather they won’t be too eager to accept.”
Not at first, at least. But just like Meredith, once they saw that Rhys was here for good, in multiple senses of the term, the villagers would welcome his presence in the neighborhood. Or at least they’d welcome the wages he could pay.
In the meantime, he’d work alone. This was how he’d gained his men’s respect in the infantry—he’d never asked an enlisted soldier to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. Not polish a buckle, not dig a grave. And he’d certainly never hesitated to lead a charge into battle.
“Listen,” he told her, “I’m glad you’re here. How much of a kitchen do you think you’ll need? Do you want it facing the hillside, or the downslope? Considering the winds, it might make more sense to have the hearth on the hillside. Less heat lost that way. But then the downslope is nearer the leat, and you’d be that much closer to the water source.”
She put a hand on his arm. He stopped talking, instantly. The pressure of her hand on his bare skin … he liked it. He liked it far too much.
“I said I can’t marry you,” she said.
“I recall it.”
“Do you think you’ll convince me to change my mind, simply by wooing my father?”
He shrugged.
George Lane called out, “Merry, we’re going to breed prize racehorses! And Rhys here has plans to breed posting horses for the inn.”
“Oh, really? Is that what ‘Rhys here’ said?”
She gave him a cool, flinty glare that was no doubt meant to be intimidating, but Rhys had seen and laughed in the face of too many intimidating glares to be affected.
What did affect him, greatly, was the firm squeeze she gave his wrist.
“We need to talk,” she said quietly, her gaze flitting toward her father. “Alone.”
“Certainly.”
Meredith’s body hummed with sensation as Rhys steered her aside, laying a hand to the small of her back. To be accurate, his hand was so big it covered more than the small of her back. His thumb lodged just under her shoulder blade, and his little finger rode the swell of her hip.
Once they were a few steps away, he turned to her and asked, “Now what did you want to discuss?” Good Lord, how was she supposed to think clearly, with him looking like this? Stripped to the waist, sweating, his muscles bulging from use and his skin burnt to a reddish-bronze by the sun. She tried dropping her gaze, but that was a mistake. His buff breeches clung to his hips and thighs like a coat of limewash.
With great effort, she pulled her attention back up to his eyes. The sun was so strong today, she had to squint, so she shaded her brow with one hand.
“Rhys, what are you doing?”
“I told you, I’m building a house. Laying the foundation.”
She looked over at the carefully aligned rectangle of stones. In the background, the ruined remains of Nethermoor Hall stood sentinel on the hillcrest. How could he truly wish to build a new house here, in the shadow of that awful place?
“This isn’t good for my father,” she said. “He’s an old man, and he’s been hobbled for fourteen years. He’s not supposed to engage in strenuous activity.”
“I’m the one doing the strenuous activity. He’s only advising.”
“It doesn’t matter—you’re keeping him out here under the hot sun all day. That alone is a strain. Not to mention, you’re filling his head with talk of stables and racehorses …”
“I believe he’s excited about it.”