“It’s good to finally hear.” She smiled. She’d been waiting for those words a great deal longer than he had. Since her twelfth summer, truth be told. Now she was here in his arms. His wife.

“When can we leave?” His tongue grazed her earlobe. “I want to take you home.”

The word sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. The cottage wasn’t much of a home yet. No furniture or fixtures. The curtains still weren’t done. But she’d seen to the essentials that afternoon—a mattress, blankets, a few bottles of wine, and a healthy stack of peat for the fire. That was all they’d need tonight.

“Soon,” she said, pulling back. “But first … I want to talk about the inn.”

He concealed any irritation and gave her a patient smile. “What about the inn?”

“I had a chat with Gideon while you were away.”

His smile faded. “Oh, did you?”

“He wants an honest life now, a family. With Cora.”

“So I gathered.”

She looked to the bar, where the younger couple were working together to serve drinks. “They’re sweet together, aren’t they?”

“I suppose.” Rhys shrugged, as though to say a big, strong man like him couldn’t possibly know a thing about sweetness.

Meredith smiled. She knew very well he did, but she wouldn’t force him to admit it. “Take my word for it, then. They’re sweet. And my money says they’ll be married by Christmas. Gideon’s going to clear out your cellar and use that as a down payment on the Three Hounds.” At the slight wrinkling of Rhys’s forehead, she sped up her speech. “He and Cora will manage the place, under my supervision at first. We’ll pay them with increasing shares of the inn, until they own it outright. Please say you’ll agree.”

“I’ll agree to whatever you like, but …” His frown deepened. “Do you really mean to give up the inn?”

“Of course not. I really mean to sell it, at a profit.” Smiling, she brought her hand to his face, rubbing her thumb along his lower lip. “It’s what’s best for the village.”

“What about you?”

“You’re what’s best for me. Truly, Rhys. I’m ready to build a future with you.”

She pressed a light kiss to his lips, and when she moved to retreat, he caught her, making that light kiss something dark, passionate. Deeply arousing.

“I’m glad you’re parting with the inn,” he said at length. “Because I have a new project for you.”

“You mean Nethermoor Hall?”

“Yes. And I’m willing to bet you’re already full of clever ideas for it.”

She bit back a grin. She did have a few.

“I knew it. You’re the most resourceful woman in England.” He lifted his gaze, and a chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I’ll never forget that first night, when I stood in that door”—he tilted his head toward the entrance—“and watched you smash that bottle of claret over Harold Symmonds’s head.”

She laughed at the memory. “Fell like a stone, didn’t he?”

“I fell harder. Knew right then you were the only one for me.” He pulled her hand from his face, kissed her palm, then pressed it flat against his chest. “I know I don’t have to tell you, I’ve seen a lot of unpleasantness in my life. Suffered a good many wounds, and a great deal of pain. But through it all, this heart kept beating. Do you feel it now?”

“Yes.” His heartbeat thumped against her palm. Steady and strong, as ever.

“Beatings, battles, fights. No matter how bleak the circumstance, no matter how my soul despaired … this heart never once gave up.” His voice deepened, went thick with emotion. “I’ve a theory as to why. Do you want to hear it?”

She nodded.

“This heart is yours.”

Words failed her. Tears would have to do. Just a few tears now, then kisses all night long. Followed by a lifetime of passion and tender love. This was just the happy beginning.

“It’s yours,” he said. “It always will be.”