Page 17 of Twice Tempted by a Rogue

His warm gaze caught hers. “It just feels right, doesn’t it?”

It did. It did. It was the rightest thing she’d ever felt, and utterly terrifying.

“Don’t fight it,” he said. “Marry me.”

Don’t fight it?But he wasn’t fighting fair. He’d been gone for fourteen years, and now he strolled in one morning making promises to fulfill all his responsibilities and never leave again? Asking her and the village to abandon their hard-won security and place their futures right back in Ashworth hands? He offered a dream, but he’d force her to give up her safe reality to grasp it.

She just couldn’t take that chance. Not on the basis of one almost-kiss and some invisible glimmer of “fate.”

She forced herself to say the words. “No, Rhys. I can’t marry you.”

His eyes flared, and his hand balled into a fist. For a moment, he almost looked angry. Strange, after he’d remained so cool and collected before the riled-up villagers. Here was a flash of the Rhys she remembered from all those years ago: wild, angry, untamed. Irresistible.

Just a few seconds later, he’d suppressed that hot flare of emotion. His jaw relaxed, and he smoothed the tablecloth with his palm.

Of all the reasons why he needed to leave Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, this was the most compelling. She couldn’t bear to see this place beat the spirit out of him forever.

“Well.” She stood on weakened legs. “You’ll have a long day ahead of you.”

“That I will, Mrs. Maddox.” He looked resigned as he rose from the table. “That I will.”

“Shall I have Darryl saddle your horse?”

“No, no. I’ll let him rest today.”

She frowned with confusion. “So … you mean to stay another night, then?”

“I mean to stay permanently.”

Flustered thoroughly now, she sat back down. “Did you not hear me, my lord? I’m sorry if I was unclear, but …” God, did she even have the strength to refuse him twice? Once had been difficult enough.

He smiled and headed for the door. “Don’t worry, Merry Lane, I heard you. I know you said you can’t marry me. But I also know you will. Just not quite yet.”

After Rhys disappeared upstairs, Meredith kept herself busy. It wasn’t difficult. There was always work to be done, and this morning, the more mindless the task, the better. She’d only just cleared the breakfast table when Mrs. Ware came in to start the day’s cookery. There were tablecloths to iron and pewter mugs to scrub. Tomorrow afternoon the mail coach came through, and depending on the weather and condition of the roads, sometimes the driver stopped at the Three Hounds to rest the horses and allow passengers to take refreshment.

Before the noontime rush, she took a moment to rest. She picked up one of the newspapers Gideon had brought in the night before and opened it, smoothing the creased paper against the bar counter. Ostensibly the papers were for the inn’s guests, but Meredith was the only one who read them. She read them all, every page. All those years of the war, she’d scoured them for any mention of Rhys. In the weeks following a battle, she would sometimes find an account of his regiment’s bravery or a list of casualties that mercifully did not include his name.

Today, it felt as though she should snap open the paper and find the headlineRHYS ST. MAUR RETURNEDTO DEVONSHIRE. Perhaps if she saw the words in print, she’d start to believe it was true. Though she doubted even the reporters ofThe Timescould find a logical explanation for that scene over breakfast this morning. Perhaps the headline ought to read:IMPOVERISHED LANDLADY REFUSES LORD’S OFFER OF MARRIAGE.

Underneath that, in smaller letters,BOTH COMMITTED TO BEDLAM.

“Left your cask of Madeira in the storeroom.” Gideon Myles appeared. He plunked a ceramic figurine on the counter. “And this washed up in a cove near Plymouth.”

“Did it now?” Meredith took the china shepherdess in her hand and examined it in the light. It was finely made and carefully painted. Exquisite.

Fragile.

“Astonishing,” she said, “that such a thing would survive being tossed about the waves and thrown up against a rocky shoreline.”

“Is it?” Gideon said innocently, his mouth tipping in a grin. The man was devilish handsome, and he knew it. Not only knew it, but made use of it. As an intermediary between Devonshire’s coastal smugglers and the markets of Bristol, London, and beyond, Gideon used that roguish charm to line his pockets, warm his nights, and generally have an ungodly amount of fun.

“Rather a miracle,” she said.

“Thought she would look well in one of your redecorated rooms. Add a touch of class, you know.”

“That she will.” She smiled down at the shepherdess. “Very thoughtful of you, Gideon. I’m grateful.”

His brow quirked. “How grateful?”

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