Chapter Nineteen

The night guard was an army man. Rhys had seen it straightaway in the way he patrolled, marching briskly back and forth, turning on a penny at the end of each pass. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Colonel St. Maur, newly Lord Ashworth, and all due deference was immediately forthcoming. After a few minutes of reminiscing and polite inquiries after the former soldier’s family, Rhys only had to drop the hint. “My lady here”—he tilted his head in Meredith’s direction—“has been longing for a glimpse of the baths, but we’re set to leave town early tomorrow. Don’t suppose you could see your way clear to …”

A wink, a smile, and a rattle of keys—and he and Meredith were inside.

Alone.

“It’s quite mysterious at night, isn’t it?” Her voice echoed off the stone colonnade as they walked the edge of the rectangular pool. The colonnade was covered, but the water itself was open to the night sky. Above them, the moon and stars worked in concert to illuminate the space, unhampered by clouds and diffused by the steam of the hot spring.

Though it was impossible to see across the pool to the other side of the colonnade, Rhys could see Meredith quite clearly, and that was all he cared about. The steam curled the wisps of hair at her temples and loosened the creases from her gown. It also misted her pale complexion, and those strong curves of her face had the sheen of alabaster, carved and polished to a gleam.

She walked around the perimeter of the mineral bath, letting her ungloved fingertips graze each column as she passed. “So this is the center of Bath.”

“Its raison d’être,” he confirmed.

“People of means will travel from all over England to come here, spend untold sums on rented rooms and amusements, all to be near this smelly basin of water. Amazing.”

“It’s not just the waters.”

“Of course not. It’s the high fashion. The society. The promise of health and the allure of a pagan legend. I read the Romans had a temple to Minerva here.”

“Care to have a bath?” he asked.

Her nose wrinkled. “Here?”

He nodded, running a fingertip along the slope of her shoulder. “There’s no one to see.” A moonlit, private bath in an ancient spring? If this wasn’t romantic, Rhys didn’t know what was.

“Thank you, no,” she said stoutly. “We haven’t any towels with us, and it smells horrid. I don’t want to go back to Devonshire smelling of rotten eggs. Besides, don’t invalids stew in there all day? It’s … it’s like a broth of disease.”

Well, then. When she put it that way … Not so romantic after all.

He cleared his throat. “Shall we be off?”

As they left the baths, she said, “Please don’t be offended. Thank you so much for showing me this place. I’m glad to have seen it. And I adore bathing with you, as you well know. I’d just prefer the tub at our hotel. Or the pool at home.”

She gasped and stopped dead in the street. “But that’s it. The pool. Of course, that’s the answer.”

Rhys had no idea what her little epiphany involved, but as she went quiet to sort it out, he seized the opportunity to admire her. The adorable way her brow wrinkled in concentration. The little flutter of her fingers as they made brisk calculations. The breathless excitement in her manner. He knew the signs. Whatever it was she was working out, it must have something to do with the inn.

A realization settled in his gut. It was always the inn. She lived for that place. It brought her trouble and hard work, yes. But it also brought her joy. All this time, he’d been assuming that once her initial wariness wore off, she’d gladly accept the advantages of marrying him. But now he wondered … if he offered her a true choice between the two, would he even stand a chance?

She bounced across the street to his side, and when she spoke again, her whole face lit from within. Like a small, round moon floating along in the dark.

“It’s the pool, don’t you see? We have a spring of our own in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. One with water that flows crisp and sweet, not malodorous and revolting. And we have a natural place for bathing, far more picturesque than a Roman bath. Heavens, we have our own actual ruins. We don’t need to go about constructing them, as they did for the Gardens.”

She put her arm through his and pulled him along, keeping up her steady stream of plans. “Naturally, the village could never hope to have the fashionable or cultural pull of Bath, but we might be able to style it as some sort of spa. We only have to spread word of the waters, and their healthful benefits. And come up with some sort of pagan legend for Darryl to tell.”

“Isn’t there one already? I thought every nook and cranny of the moor had a story attached to it.”

“True,” she said, “but most of them are frightening. All witches and curses and …”

“Living phantoms?” He pinched her midsection playfully and whispered, “Boo.”

She smiled. “No, I’m serious. The thing to do is start with a classic tale, but twist it to our purpose. You’ve had all that Eton education. What are some legends to do with pools and lakes? Romantic ones, not the ghoulish sort.”

He thought on for a moment. “Do you want something Arthurian and medieval? There’s always the Lady of the Lake.”

“That won’t do. Why would people want to take baths in a pool with some shriveled, soggy woman lurking at the bottom of it? She might grab their ankles.”

“Echo and Narcissus?” he suggested.

“How does that one go?”

“I’m no storyteller like Darryl. I don’t think I even remember it correctly.”

She squeezed his arm. “Just do your best.”

“Well, as I recall, Narcissus was a good-looking fellow. Beautiful, they said, and very vain. He spent all his time gazing at his own reflection in a pool. And Echo—she was a nymph—she was in love with him, I suppose. But she had a curse or something, and she had no words of her own. She was only able to repeat what others said to her. So he would sit by the pool, and she would just stand behind him quietly adoring. Until one day, Narcissus said to his own reflection, ‘I love you,’ and Echo was at long last able to say ‘I love you’ to him.”

“And what happened?”

“The vain fool never took notice of her. She wasted away to just an echo of her voice. And he stared at his own reflection until he went mad with frustration and stabbed himself.” Rhys chuckled.

Meredith didn’t. She didn’t say anything for a good long while.

They turned the street corner, and the way was more shadowed. The night had grown late, and they were alone. She clutched his arm in the dark.

“Merry? Are you well?”

“I used to watch you.”

They stopped walking.

“I used to watch you,” she repeated, turning to him by slow degrees. First her head pivoted, then her body. Finally, she lifted her chin and looked him in the face. “At the pool. When I was a girl. I used to follow you there in secret and hide behind the rocks.”

“What?” Rhys felt as though he’d had the breath knocked out of him. He was stunned. “Why would you do that?”

“It was wrong, I know it.” Her words were a rush. “I shouldn’t have. But I was young and … and curious.”

Curious? Anger swelled inside him. The same as it always did, when he picked himself up from a blow.

Grasping her by the elbow, he pulled her into a darkened alcove where a small flight of stairs met the street. “Just what did you see?”

“You.” She swallowed hard. Her lip trembled. “All of you.”

His heart stalled for a moment, until his vicious oath spurred it back to life.

That pool had been his refuge after a beating. His one safe place. There he would examine the damage to his body, soothe his wounds with the cool spring water, try to wash himself clean of the blood and shame. And to think, someone had been spying on him from the rocks, all that time? It churned his stomach. He’d been naked, in every way. Vulnerable. All those purpling bruises and raw, angry welts … she’d seen them. She’d seen them all.

It had taken him years to cover all the wounds his father had wrought. He’d healed from some and hidden the rest under other, newer scars. Or at least, he thought he’d hidden them. But he hadn’t. Meredith had seen them. Every single one. Even the ones he couldn’t have seen himself.

Adding to that mortification, he’d been an adolescent with natural male impulses, desperate for even a fleeting moment of pleasure …

Damn it to hell. So that’s how she knew he favored his left hand.

He dragged in a breath and choked on the air. “I can’t believe this.”

“Rhys, please.”

He turned away, disgusted. Disgusted with her, in some measure. But mostly disgusted by himself. Had he truly dreamed that Meredith would marry him? Willingly? Even women who hadn’t been witness to such shame were repelled by his touch.

He tugged at his cravat, pulling it loose from his throat. The air felt too thick to breathe. She knew. She knew everything.

“Please.” She grabbed his sleeve and laid her other hand to his cheek, tugging him to face her. He turned his head, but he still couldn’t bear to meet her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “It was terribly wrong of me, and I know that now. But I followed you everywhere. I couldn’t help it. You were strong and wild and always in motion, and everything I wished I could be, and I … I was fascinated by you. Infatuated, to tell the truth.”

A derisive laugh caught in his throat. “Infatuated.”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice strengthening. “Yes. I adored you. I was mad for you. God help me, I still am now.”

She slid both hands to his face and pulled his head down, brushing a kiss to his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek. Then each of his closed eyes in turn. His own hands stayed clenched in fists at his sides. Part of him was aching for the closeness, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her.

“Please,” she whispered, pressing her cheek to his. “Please, don’t be ashamed. And don’t be angry with me, I can’t bear it. I’m so sorry. I was a foolish girl, with a girl’s foolish dreams. I just wanted to be near you, in whatever way I could.”

She kissed his lips. Desire ricocheted down his spine.

“Rhys,” she whispered, sliding her arms around his neck. “I couldn’t help it. It was just like the story. You were so very beautiful.”

She rested her brow against his chin. He felt her breath drifting over his throat. Fast and hot, as if she were afraid, or aroused, or both. On his side, definitely both. His chest rose and fell with each ragged gasp.

He had no secrets left. No defenses. He had nothing, except that same vast, dark, empty, infinite ache that had resided in him for as long as he could remember. An endless flight of stairs, leading down and down into the cold, dark pit of his soul. Now, at long last, he’d reached the absolute rock bottom. And there she was, just standing there. She’d been there all along.

He cursed her. He blessed her. He needed her. Now.

“I want you.” The words scraped from his throat. “Here.”

“Yes.”

The soft hiss of the word slid over his skin. He clenched his fists at his sides, grappling with his emotions. “I can’t be gentle.”

“I don’t care.” She lifted her face to his. “Just be quick.”

And once they’d made the agreement to join, they immediately separated. They each took a step back and began wrestling with their own clothing. Because that was the fastest way.

Rhys tossed a glance over his shoulder as he wrenched open his trouser placket and flicked loose the closures of his smalls. There was no one in the street. Even if there had been a crowd of onlookers, he wasn’t sure he could have stopped. The need to get inside her was as intense and primal as any he’d ever known.