Twice Tempted by a Rogue

Gideon never saw it coming. One minute he was standing before Meredith, all but calling her a whore, and the next moment, Rhys had him smashed against the wall. And because it evidently wasn’t enough to do it once, Rhys grabbed him by fistfuls of shirt, pulled him off the wall, and smashed him against it again.



All around the tavern, bodies launched from chairs and pasted themselves to the edges of the room.



Holding Gideon pinned to the wall with one arm, Rhys hauled back with the other and swung. At the last second, Gideon managed to twist in his grip, so that the punch glanced off his shoulder and hit the wall—rather than snapping his neck instantaneously. He put a forearm to Rhys’s throat and wedged a boot in the larger man’s gut, levering him away. With his other arm, he reached for the pistol at his side.



Rhys beat him to it. “No guns,” he said, whipping the pistol from Gideon’s waistband and flinging it aside. “Just fists.”



The pistol skittered across the flagstones, coming to rest at Cora’s feet.



Gideon gave Rhys a swift kick to the knee—the wounded left knee he always favored. The kick sent Rhys reeling back a pace, giving Gideon an instant to breathe, react.



Attack.



Lunging to the side, he grabbed a candlestick from the mantel.



“No!” Meredith cried.



Gideon’s fingers closed around the heavy pipe of brass just as Rhys pulled back for another punch. They both swung at the same time. Rhys’s fist connected with Gideon’s jaw first, altering the angle of the candlestick’s descent, but not its velocity. The club came down on Rhys’s back with a dull thud. Both men roared with pain, separating for a moment.



But not for long.



With an inarticulate battle cry, Gideon swung again.



Rhys dodged, and the candlestick hit a table instead, crunching straight through the tabletop. As Gideon struggled to withdraw the weapon from a bird’s nest of splinters, Rhys picked up a stool and swung it hard. The stool smashed to kindling over Gideon’s head.



“You bastard!” Relinquishing his grip on the candlestick, Gideon lowered his shoulder and charged Rhys with full force.



Though Rhys was the larger man, he was caught off-balance. He reeled backward when Gideon struck, and together they plowed the distance of the room, landing against the bar with a crash of glass and splintering wood.



Meredith’s hands flew to her mouth. Good Lord. They would destroy the whole tavern.



If Rhys felt a single one of Gideon’s punches to his chest and gut, he didn’t show it. Instead he fisted his hands in Gideon’s shirt and hauled him up and left, swinging him bodily onto the counter and dropping him flat on his back. Within seconds, Rhys had scrambled atop him, straddling Gideon’s thighs to hold him down as he dealt blow after punishing blow.



“Stop this!” Meredith cried. “Rhys, Gideon. For the love of God, stop!”



Neither one of them heeded her pleas.



Gideon’s hands shot up to grasp Rhys’s throat. He locked his elbows, pushing up until Rhys’s head smashed into the rows of hanging glassware. As they struggled, little bits of glass rained down on them both, followed by red trickles of blood. Whose blood, Meredith couldn’t be sure.



Once the shower of glass cleared, the picture looked much the same. Gideon flat on his back on the bar; Rhys looming over him. Gideon’s fingers cinched tight around Rhys’s throat, cutting off his air. Meanwhile, Rhys took jab after powerful jab at Gideon’s ribs. Meredith heard a sick crack.



Oh, God. This wouldn’t stop until one of them was unconscious. Or dead.



Cora leapt toward the men, but Meredith grabbed the girl by the arm and held her back. There was no stopping these two. Anyone who tried to intervene would most certainly be injured, if not killed.



“Die,” Gideon growled, tightening his fingers about Rhys’s throat.



In response, Rhys grated out two words. “Make. Me.”



Rhys’s face had turned a frightening shade of red, but Meredith could tell Gideon’s strength was waning. With an almost regretful expression, Rhys raised his fist and took one last swing at Gideon’s jaw. Blood sprayed from the younger man’s mouth, spattering Meredith and Cora both. Cora shrieked. Gideon’s body went limp, his hands slumping back to the bar.



A tooth rolled to the floor and bounced off the flagstones.



And Rhys just kept dealing blows.



“Get up.” Thwack. “Is that the best you can do?” Thwack. “Stand, you miserable piece of filth.” He grabbed the senseless Gideon by the collar and shook him, slamming his head against the bar. “Wake up, you bastard, and try to kill me again.”



He released Gideon’s shirt, and the younger man’s head rolled back to the bar. Rhys sat hulking over him, bleeding and panting and sweating. And maybe—Meredith couldn’t quite tell—weeping a little bit, too.



Just when she’d gathered the composure to go to him, Rhys firmed his jaw and raised his heavy fist again, as if to deal Gideon a death blow. The room sucked in its breath.



“No!” Cora cried.



Meredith said, “Rhys, don’t!”



From behind them both, a man pushed through the crowd and rushed to grab Rhys’s arm. Meredith recognized him as Rhys’s friend and Cora’s sponsor. Mr. Julian Bellamy. She never imagined she’d be so glad to see that man again.



“Save it,” Bellamy said, breathing hard and using all his strength to rein in Rhys’s fury. “Save that blow for one who deserves it. I’ve found him.”



After a long, tense moment, Rhys lowered his arm, tugging it out of Bellamy’s grip. He blinked down at Gideon’s insensate form, like he didn’t even recognize the man. His gaze wandered the debris-strewn bar, as if he’d no idea how he’d even come to be there.



“Rhys?” she ventured.



His eyes lifted to hers, soulless and cold. Swallowing hard, he wiped his brow with his sleeve. The linen came away streaked with dirt and sweat and blood. “You wanted me angry,” he said, spitting a mouthful of blood to the side. “Are you happy now?”



She choked on a sob.



“So you’re angry. Brilliant. The timing couldn’t be better.” Mr. Bellamy grabbed hold of Rhys’s shirt and pulled, demanding his attention. “Save your wrath. I’ve found him. The man who killed Leo.”



Chapter Twenty-three



The ensuing silence was profound. Everyone, Meredith included, was struck dumb by the tableau of carnage and destruction. This tavern had seen more than its share of brawls, but never anything like this. No one knew what came next. Breaking the tension, Mr. Bellamy clapped Rhys on the shoulder. “Come along, Ashworth,” he said gently. “Let’s get you out of this place.”



After a moment’s pause, Rhys nodded. He slid down from the bar, landing with a resounding thud.



Bellamy surveyed Rhys’s appearance, wrinkling his nose at the blood and dirt. “Have you a fresh suit somewhere?”



Rhys dabbed his bleeding lip. “Up at my house.”



“Then up to the house we go.” Bellamy inclined his head in Meredith’s direction. “Mrs. Maddox, always a pleasure.”



Meredith nearly hugged the man, she was so grateful. No one here in the village would have been able to stop that scene and talk Rhys back down to earth.



Bellamy turned an appraising gaze on Cora. “Are you well?”



The girl nodded.



“Mind you don’t run off again. When we leave, you’ll be coming with us.”



Meredith tried to catch Rhys’s eye, but he refused to meet her gaze. “Rhys,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Look at me. Are you hurt?”



“Why do you care?”



“Of course I care.”



“Don’t. I don’t want you to.” He shrugged off her touch. “I can’t be near you right now.”



As the men left, the hounds trotted after them. Meredith stayed behind. She looked around at the wreckage and wondered to herself, which was in more pieces: her tavern, or her heart?



Cora rushed to Gideon’s side. Within seconds, he was moaning curses and writhing atop the bar, proving that Rhys hadn’t quite done him in.



For a long, fuming minute, Meredith contemplated finishing Gideon off herself. Then her practical nature prevailed. She didn’t want that sort of mess in her tavern, or that sort of guilt on her soul. Gideon simply wasn’t worth it. She did, however, want to keep him from bleeding all over the bar. She went for her kit of bandages and medicines, but when she carried the small box out from the kitchen, Cora took it from her hands.



“I’ll take care of him,” she said firmly. There was no girlish lilt in her voice now, only a woman’s resolve. Harold and Laurence stood behind her, rolling up their sleeves. “We’ll take him up to one of the guest rooms,” she said.



Meredith nodded numbly. “I’ll clean up down here.”



After chasing everyone from the room, she latched the door. Alone, she swept up every sliver of broken glass and each piece of splintered wood. She mopped the blood from the countertop and scoured the flagstones with sand. She righted the remaining furniture and returned the brass candlestick to its place on the mantel.



When noontime came, she went upstairs to wash and change her frock, and then she prepared a simple family meal. Bread, cheese, sausages. She called Father and Darryl in from the horse barn. Mr. Bellamy’s team and carriage were still there, but there was no sign of the gentleman. Or Rhys.



After the men had taken their meal, Meredith prepared a tray and carried it upstairs.



“I’ve brought up some tea and broth,” she said, pushing the door open with her foot. “And solid food for you, Cora.”



Gideon was supine on the bed, still wearing his boots and trousers, but stripped to the waist. Cora sat in a chair beside him, holding a poultice to one side of his face.



“He’s sleeping,” she said. “I dosed him with laudanum for the pain.”



Meredith set the tray on a nearby table. Then she crossed to stand over Cora’s shoulder and reached to lift the poultice from his face. Lord. The man’s jaw, cheek, and brow were all one giant, swollen bruise. He wouldn’t be seeing daylight through that eye for a week.



“Well, Gideon,” she said quietly, even though she knew he couldn’t hear, “you deserved that.”



“It wasn’t how you’re thinking,” Cora said. She smoothed the hair from Gideon’s brow. “The two of us, last night.”



“Even so. He’s had this coming to him.” Ever since that night Rhys stumbled in from the moor with a gash in his scalp.



Meredith took her turn watching over the wounded man while Cora had a rest, then prepared an evening meal. And after all was swept and washed and put away, she sat down at her scratched and dented bar and poured herself a generous glass of wine. Then a second. A folded newspaper lay on the counter. She left it untouched. It couldn’t tell her what she wanted to know today.



Near midnight, there came a knock at her bedchamber door. Meredith gathered a shawl about her shoulders, went to the door, and slid back the latch to open it a crack.



Rhys was there, dressed in a clean shirt and breeches. The small cuts on his brow had been tended and cleaned. “I leave at dawn,” he said.



She could only blink at him.



“It’s the murderer. Bellamy thinks he’s found the man who was with Leo the night he was attacked. Name of Faraday. Been hiding out in Cornwall. Bellamy’s speaking with Cora now. She’ll come along to confirm his identity.”



“Why do you need to go?”



His eyebrow quirked. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m the muscle. In case of reluctance, I’m to pound the truth out of him. Then mete out justice, if it’s warranted.”



“I see.”



“Yes. You see. As did everyone else, this morning. It’s what I do.” Self-loathing flickered in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “What about Myles? Will he—”

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