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)
Gideon was still downstairs in the bar. She needed to see his wagonload of goods stowed safely in the horse barn. Not to mention, finish serving her customers without losing more furniture in the process.
But Rhys would leave tomorrow. She would never have this chance again. She worked so hard for this place. Every day, all day. Didn’t she deserve one night for herself?
She rapped firmly on the door.
When he opened it, she spoke quickly, before she could lose her nerve. “You could,” she said. “You could kiss me. I wouldn’t mind.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No.”
He cupped her jaw in his hand and tilted her face to his. It was only then that she realized she’d addressed her fearless speech to his coat button.
His thumb stroked her cheek tenderly, and she let her eyes close. He did it again, dragging his thumb from her cheekbone to her jaw. Just that gentle brush of his skin against hers had her whole body humming.
Unable to bear the anticipation a moment longer, she opened her eyes.
He didn’t kiss her.
“Thank you for that.” He touched a fingertip to the corner of her mouth before releasing her. “Good night, Mrs. Maddox.”
Before she could bid him the same, he’d closed the door.
Chapter Three
If only stone could burn. In the thin gray dawn, Rhys stood before the gutted shell of Nethermoor Hall. After such a long absence, he hadn’t known what to expect. He’d fantasized about finding the place just a scar on the moor, a still-smoking pile of cinders and lime. But those hopes had been disappointed. For unlike the roofbeams, floors, and passageways, Nethermoor’s exterior walls had been built of stone. And damn it all, stone didn’t burn.
Much of the once-great house’s masonry had disappeared into the Dartmoor mist, no doubt scavenged for new construction. But here and there, an orderly stack of stones persisted—the corner of a room, an arched doorway leading from one nowhere to another. Fourteen unforgiving winters had scrubbed the remaining rocks of soot, and they appeared as weathered and permanent as so many granite tors pressing up through the moor’s endless swaths of gorse.
Time and rain could do their worst for centuries. A conflagration could consume the surrounding heath. But Nethermoor Hall would never completely go away, because it was made of stone, and stones were forever.
Turning away from the house, Rhys walked the short distance to where the stables had once stood. Where the fire had begun. Little remained to mark the site, save a low border of rocks outlining the foundation. The place had grown over with moss and sedge. He kicked at a blackened piece of metal on the ground. An old bridle loop, perhaps. Or maybe a bit. An icy shiver crawled over his neck.
Behind him, his gelding whickered uneasily. The horse didn’t like the place any more than he did. Maybe he should have given more credit to Darryl’s tales. Maybe the scent of singed horseflesh did linger on the breeze. Did the perk of the horse’s ears mean he caught the faint echoes of equine screams?
Rhys shuddered. In the years since leaving Nethermoor, he’d heard the death cries of many creatures, human and inhuman. But none were as eerie or chilling as the sounds this place had etched on his memory—the crisp, rhythmic crack of a whip kissing hide, the whoosh of a wind-fueled blaze, and those panicked screams of trapped horses.
Darryl Tewkes was right. Rhys should have died with those beasts fourteen years ago. He’d been courting death every day of his life ever since. But he was the human equivalent of a goddamned boulder. Huge, hard, indestructible. He’d weathered the daily beatings in his youth, the countless schoolyard and tavern brawls, the ravages of battle. He was starker, meaner, and scarred for his pains, but still here.
Still here. Standing in front of this hellish pile of rocks and misery he’d inherited.
If only stone could burn.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. He turned his head, intending to spit, but found himself doubled over and retching instead. God damn it. Eleven years in the infantry, and he’d never once vomited in battle.
Get up, the voice inside him said. The cold, commanding voice he’d never been able to silence, even with a hundred cannons thundering in his ears. Get up. No matter what struck him down—fist, shot, bayonet—he somehow always staggered to his feet, ready to take more. Get up. On your feet. Stand, you miserable piece of filth.
Rhys stood.
Slowly turned.
And left, without looking back.
He was tempted to ride straight on to Lydford, leaving Buckleigh-in-the-Moor behind him without so much as a farewell. But he had to return. He’d left his bags at the Three Hounds, for one. His horse hadn’t been fed, and neither had he.
Most of all, he needed to see Meredith again. He owed her an apology for that boorish proposition last night. Simply because she’d been the only soul in the village to greet him with civility, it didn’t follow that she’d eagerly fall into bed with him. He couldn’t think what had possessed him to even suggest it. He’d been so tired and bleary-eyed, and just a bit drunk on those soft, shy glances. He’d simply wanted to get close to her and stay there for a while, and learn if her hair smelled as lovely as it looked. And afterwards, sleep. Sleep and forget, instead of spending the night tossing and cursing the rafters.