He’d just need to keep his shirt on.

He silently cursed himself for that mistake. What had he been thinking, letting her see his bare torso, all the scars he’d accumulated over the years? The look on her face as she asked him to put on a shirt … She must have been disgusted. He could tell by the guarded, wary glances she kept throwing him.

Meredith ducked behind the bar and lined up four glasses for filling. Rhys started toward her, eager to make a better impression tonight.

“Don’t even think it.”

Gideon Myles stepped in front of him. Rhys had to admit, the man had bollocks, to try that move with him.

“Leave her be. She’s not for you,” Myles said in a low voice. “There’s nothing in this village for you.”

“Oh, really? I’ve a title and a pile of legal papers that say otherwise.”

“And I’ve a pistol.” Myles’s hand went to his waistband.

Rhys waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. Saw it this morning. I wasn’t impressed then, either.” He eyed the man closely, taking his measure. Average height, lean, and probably about five years Rhys’s junior. His eyes held the hungry gleam of ambition, and pure arrogance fueled his swaggering step.

Rhys didn’t like him. At all.

“You’re very protective of those dry goods you carry, Mr. Myles.”

“My trade is none of your concern.”

“Oh, I think it is. As the lord of this place, unlawful activity is my concern. And my concern … well, that’s your problem, isn’t it? You’re transporting smuggled goods through this village, and you’re worried I’ll put a stop to it.”

To his credit, Myles didn’t even try to deny the charge. He coolly raised his eyebrows. “And …?”

“And you’re right. I will put a stop to it.”

His jaw clenched. “Like hell you will. Stay out of my way, Ashworth, and I’ll make no trouble for you. This is business, not personal.”

“Oh, it’s personal to me.” Rhys took a small step toward him, forcing Myles to take a small step in retreat. “If you trafficked in French goods during the war, in even the smallest amount—it’s personal, indeed. Your ‘trade’ could have purchased the lead that ripped through this shoulder.” He thumped his hand over the old wound. “Missed my heart by inches.”

The younger man set his jaw. “Can’t blame that one on me. If I’d paid for that ball, it would have found its mark.”

“Fair enough. Forget me. Let’s speak of others, then. How many casks of brandy do you think it took to fund each bayonet or saber that skewered one of my men in battle?”

“I don’t know.” Gideon’s eyes flashed. “About as many as it took to keep these villagers from starving to death after you left Devonshire.”

Touché.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Guess you were right,” Myles finally said. “It is personal.”

Rhys nodded in agreement.

“Very well, then. You have a week to get out of my village. Or I will personally make certain you leave.”

Rhys just laughed and shook his head. “You and what army? Oh, wait—I forgot. Armies can’t kill me, either.”

“A week.” Myles backed his way to the door, pausing just before he left to add, “I’ll be back in a week. Don’t let me catch you here.”

The moment Gideon Myles left, Rhys ceased caring about him. As if he’d allow some petty smuggler to dictate where and when he could be on his own land. What a joke.

He strolled over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. He watched as Meredith tapped a fresh cask of wine. The defined muscles in her arms made a stark contrast with her delicate features and small frame.

“Don’t you have a girl to help you in the evenings?” he asked, looking about the room. “A barmaid?”

She shook her head as she poured. “Not at the moment. My regular girl gave birth not a few weeks ago. Don’t know yet whether she’ll come back.”

“When does the post come through next?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Might I beg a few sheets of paper and some ink?”

She didn’t answer him, just shrugged as she left to deliver the glasses of wine. But a few minutes later, two leaves of heavy, cream-colored paper materialized on the bar before him, along with a quill and a small pot of ink.

“Who are you writing?” she asked, leaning both elbows on the bar. “A friend?”

“Not exactly.” In fact, Julian Bellamy might very well be an enemy.

Along with Rhys and the Duke of Morland, Bellamy was one of the three surviving members of the Stud Club. He’d been the closest to Leo, and, by all appearances, had been devastated by his friend’s tragic death. Since the murder, Bellamy had seemed a man possessed, determined to hunt down Leo’s killers and bring them to justice.

In recent weeks, however, a new witness had surfaced. If the whore who witnessed Leo’s killing could be believed, Bellamy might have had something to do with the death.

Rhys would have preferred to ask Morland to send his belongings out to Devonshire. He and Rhys had exchanged more punches than words as schoolboys, but he now counted the man as a friend, of sorts. But the duke was currently honeymooning at his Cambridgeshire estate, leaving Rhys no choice but to write Bellamy. Murderer or not, there was no one else in London he could ask.

He worked slowly; with his stiff fingers, he had to take care if he wanted his penmanship to be legible at all. After half a page, he dropped the quill and paused to shake out his hand.

“Why don’t you switch to your left?”

He looked up to see Meredith back at the bar.

She nodded at his gnarled right hand. “Why do you still try to write with it? You favor your left, anyhow.”

How did she know that? It was true, Rhys had favored his left hand from his youth. But he’d been beaten for attempting to write with it. So he’d switched to his right, and then he’d been beaten for his poor penmanship. So he’d practiced in secret, spent painstaking hours laboring over a paper and quill, until his awkward scratchings became effortless, flowing script.

And then he’d just been beaten for something else.

“Care for gin?” Meredith held the bottle poised above an empty glass.

“Thank you, no.”

With a little shrug, she tipped the bottle and poured anyway. After filling the glass to halfway, she put aside the bottle and raised the glass to her own lips.

“Does it bother you much?” she asked from behind the glass, casting a pointed look toward the room behind him.

Rhys threw a casual glance over his shoulder, having formed a good expectation of what he’d see. He was right. Everyone in the room was staring at him. Their eyes were filled with hatred, fascination, fear, or all three. He recognized more than a few men from the torch-bearing mob that morning. Over by the hearth, Harold and Laurence Symmonds glared at him over tankards of ale.

“Are they brothers or cousins?” he asked, tilting his head to indicate the bull-headed, beak-nosed pair.

“Yes.” At his obvious confusion, she explained, “Their mother took up with a pair of brothers. No one was ever able to sort out who belonged to whom. But yes, they’re brothers or cousins.”

“Explains a few things,” Rhys muttered. He turned back to Meredith and shrugged. “The staring doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. They’ll come around, in time.”

She didn’t agree or disagree, just sipped her drink.

“When we announce our engagement,” he said, “they’ll come around that much faster.”

She sputtered into the glass.

Rhys resumed writing his letter. “Still so surprised? I told you, it’s fate. As suitors go, I know I haven’t much to offer you at the moment, but that’s why I’ve started the cottage. Made good progress on the foundation today. It should be large enough for all three of us, if I build two stories.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’ll take some time, though, collecting that much stone.”

“What do you mean?” She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve a great pile of stone, just sitting there atop the hill.”

She meant the remains of Nethermoor Hall, of course. And she was right—the crumbling heap was a ready supply of building material. But somehow, Rhys just couldn’t stomach stealing rocks from his hellish past to build the house of his future. The cottage was meant to be a fresh start.

“I’d rather save that for rebuilding the Hall,” he lied. “I’ll gather moorstone for the cottage. Or quarry some granite out of the slope, perhaps.”

She shook her head. “Why not just use cob?”

“Cob?” Odd, he hadn’t thought of that. Down here in the village, most of the buildings were fashioned from the traditional walls of packed earth.

“Once you have the stone plinth, all you need for a cob house is soil and straw,” she said. “It’s easier, and cheaper by far. And built right, it will last centuries.” She looked up at the ceiling. “It’s what I plan to use, when I have the chance to expand this place.”

He looked up in surprise. “You have plans to expand the inn?”

“Oh, I have all sorts of plans for this inn.”

He signed his letter, folded it, and shoved it in his pocket. “Tell me about them.”

She gave him a mocking look. “I’m shocked you’d ask, seeing as how they’re fated to never come to pass.”

“Humor me. I’d like to hear them anyway.”

“Very well.” She set a second glass on the bar and filled it halfway. Despite his dislike of liquor, Rhys didn’t object. It was beginning to feel awkward, letting her drink alone. He didn’t want to interrupt her or argue the point, so he accepted the glass and took a cautious sip.

Fire ripped down his throat.

“Damn,” he said, coughing. “This isn’t Plymouth gin.”

“No, it’s a local brew. Cures all ills.”

“Causes them, do you mean?” He took another slow sip and found it burned less this time. “Go on, then. You were telling me about your plans.”

She refilled her own glass. “As I said, I plan to add a new wing when I have the chance. And by ‘chance,’ I mean funds, of course. Guestrooms on the upper floor and a proper dining room and parlor below. It’ll adjoin the building just there,” she said, indicating the direction with a jut of her chin. “Across from the stables. That way, the courtyard will be enclosed on three sides instead of two.”

Rhys sipped thoughtfully as she went on, detailing her plans for quality furnishings and finer dining room fare. The Three Hounds was well-situated, she explained, positioned on the only road traversing this part of the moor. The inn six miles down the road currently took most of the travelers’ business, but Meredith meant to change all that.

“With the war over, more people will be taking pleasure tours. There’s no reason why the Three Hounds shouldn’t have a slice of that pie.” Her whole face became animated as she continued describing her plans. “With finer accommodations, larger rooms, some posting horses … this place could be a real destination. A stopping place for gentlefolk passing through on their way to tour points west. Why should they not break their journey here and explore Dartmoor, too? As you said earlier, the moor can be a pretty place.”

“Beautiful. I believe I used the word beautiful.”

“So you did.” She gave him a shy smile. “Beautiful, then.”

Their gazes tangled and held. Rhys took a deep, slow drink from those lovely eyes. They made him feel refreshed. Washed clean, as much as a man like him could ever be.