Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
He caught her arm. “I … Merry, I’m sorry to bring you so much trouble. I’ll make it up to you.”
He’d make it up to all of them. To be sure, some of the residents of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor were right fools, and he’d never win any popularity contests here. But the majority of the villagers had to be decent, honest souls, and they had good reason to view him with suspicion. They’d all come around in time.
Meredith bit her lip. Her cheek dimpled with a fetching, lopsided smile. “You bring all sorts of trouble, Rhys St. Maur, and you always have done. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of Harold and Laurence and the others.”
“I’m certain you will.” She seemed to be taking care of the whole village. This inn, the travelers, her invalid father, the lives and fortunes of all these idiot men.
But who was taking care of her?
He asked, “Have you eaten your own breakfast yet?”
She shook her head no.
“Let’s do this, then,” he said, backing away. “I’ll wash at the pump. You find us a morsel to eat. And then we’ll sit down to breakfast together and fix our wedding date.”
Chapter Four
As she laid the table for breakfast, Meredith refused even to think about Rhys’s words to her outside. Surely her ears had deceived her. There was no way in Creation that he meant to propose marriage to her after a single night at the Three Hounds. Her accommodations were nice, but not that nice. She didn’t even have any ham or bacon. Until Mrs. Ware came in, there’d be no meat to serve except cold mutton pie. Just rolls and the whortleberry jam. And fresh cream and boiled eggs, and coffee made with cool spring water. Here was one consolation: The Three Hounds brewed the best coffee in England, or so a well-traveled guest had once proclaimed. Not that Meredith could know from experience. The farthest from home she’d ever been was Tavistock.
She’d just finished setting the table for two when Rhys entered the dining room, freshly bathed and dressed in a clean shirt and breeches. His hair was so short, it was already dry. She wanted to run her fingers over it, to see if it felt soft like goose down, or blunt, like clipped grass.
Lord, what was she thinking? That scene in the courtyard had made it perfectly clear that for Rhys’s own safety and the harmony of the village, she needed to feed him and send him on his way. Today. No hair-stroking would be involved.
“Won’t you be seated, my lord?” She tried for a breezy, casual tone. “Do you care for coffee?”
“I do. And please, just call me Rhys,” he said, settling onto a wooden stool. “Not enough people do.” He accepted the mug of coffee she handed him. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and the sensation was electric.
He took a fearless swallow of the scalding brew. “So,” he said, plunking the mug to the table, “when does this curate come into the village next? How soon can we be married?”
That electric tingle became a full-body shock.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I can. I’m quite frequently serious. Do you think I’d enter into marriage lightly?”
A startled bubble of laughter escaped her. “What else can I think, when you’ve just walked through the door yesterday?”
“It’s not as though I’m a stranger to you.” He sipped his coffee again. “You’ve known me since you were a girl.”
“Before last night, I hadn’t laid eyes on you in fourteen years.”
“Mm.” A little smile crooked his lips. “That’s what makes it destiny. We’re fated to wed.”
Meredith felt as though she’d been wedged into an old wine cask and set rolling down the rocky slope of Bell Tor. Rattled, disoriented. Just a bit drunk.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, I don’t want to marry you.” And she didn’t, not anymore. They needn’t discuss the scraps of foolscap she’d covered with “Meredith St. Maur, Lady Ashworth” when she was twelve. “I don’t want to marry at all.” As a widow, she owned this inn outright. That wouldn’t be the case if she took a husband.
He said calmly, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that fate doesn’t care what we want.”
“Well, I don’t believe in fate.” She hugged herself tighter still.
“Fate doesn’t care whether we believe in it, either. That’s the devil of it.” He chuckled. “Meredith. Lay down that shield you’re making with your arms and come sit with me.” When she hesitated, he lifted a brow. “It’s only breakfast.”
Was it?
As she sat down, he picked up a knife and buttered a roll. “You’d understand what I mean about fate if you’d lived through a war in my boots.”
The words settled like stones in her chest. “Was it true? Everything you said out there in the courtyard?”