Twice Tempted by a Rogue

His hair was the first thing she’d noticed. Or rather, the lack of it. He kept it shorn close to his scalp now, and that had thrown her for a moment when she’d seen him in the door. All her memories of Rhys featured long waves of dark hair pulled back with a bit of leather cord. Or falling loose in roguish locks over his brow. He’d tried to hide his face sometimes back then—the new bruise purpling beneath his eye, or a fresh split in his lip.



He seemed to have given up on hiding his injuries now. His face was a map of scars she didn’t recognize, but she blessed those healed wounds. They told her she wasn’t dreaming this time. This was truly Rhys St. Maur sitting there on the stool, one elbow propped on the counter. Huge and defiant and rugged and—holy God—right there in front of her. In the flesh. After fourteen years.



“I know you,” he said slowly. His tone made it a question.



“Do you?” Desperate to disguise her shock, Meredith reached for his empty tankard.



His fingers tightened over the handle. Large, roughened. Strong.



Her gaze snapped up to his, and again he snared her with those gorgeous eyes. In all the years she’d spent living on the Nethermoor estate, Rhys St. Maur had never looked at her like this. He’d scarcely looked at her at all. Now she could see that his eyes were wild and beautiful, just like the rest of him. Deep, rich brown streaked with amber. Like the finest cognac, or …



“Brandy,” she breathed.



His brow lifted. A thick scar split it in two.



“Care for a brandy?” She cleared her throat. “Cool night out there. A man needs something more than ale to warm him.”



“Does he?” His lips quirked in a sensuous way.



She cursed silently, realizing the flirtatious implication of her words. That hadn’t been her intent. Not that she found it repulsive, the idea of … warming Rhys St. Maur. To the contrary, fantasies of doing just that had steamed her bathwater for years. “I … I only meant …”



“I know. Thank you, Mrs. Maddox. But I don’t drink spirits.”



Well. He might not need a drink, but Meredith did. She reached for a bottle under the counter—her private reserve—and poured herself a generous amount.



“I know you,” he said. Not a question this time. His voice was deeper than she recalled, and it reached different places inside her. “I don’t remember you, but I know you.”



She tilted the glass of gin slowly, taking a fortifying swallow before answering. “Meredith Lane,” she finally said, giving him her maiden name. “You likely don’t recall, but my father—”



“Managed our stables. Of course I recall.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You’re George Lane’s girl? Impossible. When I saw that girl last, she was nothing but freckles and bone.”



Her cheeks heated. He did remember her. Not precisely the way she’d have wished to be remembered, but it was something.



“Merry Lane,” he said, his voice gone soft. A low chuckle caught in his throat. “Can’t believe it. You’re little Merry Lane.”



The warmth in her cheeks was a full blush now. That was the only notice he’d taken of her as a girl—her silly, sentimental name. If they crossed paths in the stables, he’d say it with a mocking lilt in his voice as he impatiently brushed her aside.



Run along home, Merry Lane.



“I’m not Merry Lane anymore.” Wiping down the counter with a rag, she kept her tone light. “That’s the magic of being gone from the neighborhood fourteen years, my lord. Things change in your absence.”



“So they do, Mrs. Maddox. So they do.” Suddenly serious, he cleared his throat. “Your father … He’s still living?”



“Upstairs as we speak. He oversees the inn’s stables now, with Darryl’s help. Though we seldom shelter anything finer than pack ponies and the occasional traveler’s mount.”



“I’d like to see him.”



“Then you’ll have to wait. He’ll be sleeping now, but tomorrow you can …” She paused. “I’m assuming you mean to stay the night here. It is the only inn for miles.”



Please stay, a fool voice inside her pleaded. Please don’t walk away again just yet.



“Yes, for the night.”



“Just the one night?” Not that it mattered. Whether he stayed one night or ten, he was sure to leave again eventually. There was nothing for him here. His inherited lands were largely worthless moorland. Nethermoor Hall itself was a burnt-out ruin, and it ought to stay that way.



“Just the one night.” He gave her a slight, self-effacing smile. “If you’ve a room for a living phantom, that is.”



“Don’t mind Darryl Tewkes,” she said quickly. “He’s been embroidering that tale for years. He plies it on all the travelers passing through, trying to entice them to stay in the neighborhood an extra night. More money for the inn, you know, as well as for his pocket. He even has some of the cottagers along the touring route making souvenirs to sell. Miniature stone crosses and the like.”



“How enterprising of him. An industrious employee, a capable young wife … Old Maddox seems to have done quite well for himself.”



“The man’s six years in the grave. Depends on your point of view, whether that’s doing well or not.”



His jaw tensed. “You’re widowed.”



She nodded in reply.



“I’m sorry for it.”



“Don’t be.” She fumbled with the glass she’d been wiping clean. Devil take it, she was a widow, an innkeeper, and turning thirty in two summers. How did he make her feel like an awkward girl again? “I mean, it’s been years. I’ve been widowed longer than I was married, by now. And he left me the inn, so we get by well enough.”



“We? Have you children?”



The familiar pang came and ebbed in a heartbeat. She shook her head. “No. Just me and Father. And Darryl, since his aunt died. And all the villagers, for that matter. We had to find a way to get by, didn’t we? The primary local employer deserted us fourteen years ago.”



Rhys stared at his ale a moment. Then he lifted it and drank in silence.



He looked chastened, and she rued the bitterness in her tone. But he should know the truth—it hadn’t been easy. The late Lord Ashworth had been a right bastard, but at least he’d paid wages on occasion and given the local merchants some custom. After Nethermoor burned down and the family deserted the region, the village was left at loose ends. There was very little agriculture in the area, this being the rocky heart of the moor. Buckleigh-in-the-Moor lost an entire generation as the young men left town, one by one. The new war prison at Princetown gave some work for a time. Others went further, to Exeter or Plymouth. Those few who remained in the village relied on what wages the Three Hounds could provide—as Darryl did—or else made a living through shady dealings.



Speaking of shady dealings … As if she’d called him in from the cold with the thought, Gideon Myles strolled through the door.



The assembled men greeted him with a rousing cheer, to which Gideon responded with a gallant tip of his low-brimmed cap. As always, he took a moment to savor his notoriety, vigorously shaking the outstretched hands of several men. All too soon, however, his keen eyes sought her out. Meredith knew better than to wait for him to approach.



“Back in a trice,” she told Rhys, hurrying out from behind the bar. Rhys was only passing through, just staying the night. He and Gideon Myles had no business with one another, but only trouble could result if they met.



Gideon greeted her with a roguish grin. He was a young man—at least three years her junior—but he’d never lacked for arrogance. He was also far too handsome for his own good. “Well, well,” he said. “Don’t you look eager to see me? And for good reason, too. I’ve a cask of Madeira for you this week.”



“Fine, fine,” she said distractedly, darting a glance at Rhys. “Can we go outside and discuss it in the courtyard?”



“The courtyard? I just came in. It’s cold as a witch’s cunny out there, and near as damp.” His eyebrow arched, and he lowered his voice to a suggestive murmur. “Unless you wanted a bit of privacy, in which case I’d suggest a different location …”



She blew out a frustrated breath. Now was not the time for flirtation. Pulling him aside, she said, “You can’t unload the wagon tonight.”



“What do you mean? I know the mist’s a bit thick, but by the time the men load up the ponies the weather’s sure to—”



“No, no. You mustn’t load the ponies, either. I mean it, Gideon. Tonight won’t do. You can pull the wagon into the barn, and we’ll cover it with blankets and such. Darryl will sleep atop it, for safekeeping.”



He made a scornful sound in his throat. “I wouldn’t trust Darryl Tewkes to guard my drink while I went out to piss.” His eyes went serious. “It’s a valuable take tonight, Meredith. I’ve two men out there already, armed with pistols and shot. It’s too risky not to transport the goods immediately.”



Even worse. Two men with guns? She hesitated, casting a glance toward the bar.



“As usual,” he said, “there’s more than Madeira in it for you. You know I pay handsomely for the use of your father’s ponies.”



“I know, I know. But you don’t understand.”



“I understand your eyes keep straying to that gent by the bar. Great ugly fellow, isn’t he? Where’d he come from?” His voice darkened. “Has he frightened you?”



“No, no. He’s just a traveler.” Inspiration struck, and she added, “So he says. If you ask me, he’s on errand from the Lydford magistrate. Best not to give him any reason to suspect, you know? Wait until morning, after he leaves.”



“You know I can’t transport these goods in daylight. And the Lydford magistrate’s been in my pocket for well over a year.” Gideon shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to a waiting man. “Perhaps I’ll introduce myself. Add his drinks to my account, will you?”



Meredith tried to protest, but Gideon was already halfway across the room.



“I’m Gideon Myles,” he announced, tossing his cap on the counter beside Rhys’s elbow.



Rhys looked up from his ale. “Should I know that name?”



“I daresay you should. But then, modesty’s never been one of my virtues.”



With a reluctant sigh, Rhys braced his hands on the edge of the bar and stood. Meredith saw a flicker of hesitance cross Gideon’s features. Gideon was a big man by most measures, but Rhys dwarfed him with his shadow alone.



“Don’t tell me,” Rhys said, stacking his arms across his massive chest. “You want to show me your enchanted cave and sell me a bottle of piskie dust.”



And now Gideon’s face went blank with confusion. “I don’t know what the hell you’re implying,” he said slowly, “but I know I feel like hitting you for it.”



This was hopeless. Meredith had no choice but to step in.



“Pardon the interruption,” she said to Rhys. “Mr. Myles is our local … dry goods carrier.” She ignored Gideon’s expression of offended pride. He’d understand the reason for her falsehood soon enough. “Gideon, this is Rhys St. Maur. The new Lord Ashworth.”



The entire room went still. Conversations died mid-syllable. The name Ashworth had the same effect as the sound of that brass candlestick whipped through the air. It was a dangerous sound. A threat.



“Ashworth,” Gideon repeated, staring down Rhys with vengeful eyes.



Rhys stood impassive and said evenly, “Yes. I believe we’ve established our names, Mr. Myles.”



A grumble spread through the room. Chair legs scraped slate.