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)
Rhys reluctantly handed him the reins. He wished Lane would allow him to do the labor of unsaddling and grooming the horse, but he wouldn’t insist. He’d known many soldiers crippled in battle, and he’d learned to never second-guess their abilities.
Besides, George Lane couldn’t be too hampered by his injuries. He still kept an immaculate horse barn, from what Rhys could see as he followed him to the stable door.
“No need to come in,” Lane called to him, holding him off with an outstretched hand. “You know I’ll take excellent care of him.”
“I know,” Rhys said, wondering why the man didn’t seem to want him in his stables. Well, it could have something to do with the fact that his last stables had burned to the ground. If he were George Lane, Rhys wouldn’t trust himself in there either, come to think of it.
He propped his shoulder against the wide post of the doorway and spoke into the darkened interior. “It’s a large barn you’ve got here. Your daughter told me it’s mostly pack ponies you keep.”
“That’s right,” Lane replied. “I started breeding them a decade ago, from a few wild ponies I brought in off the moor. They’re well-trained now, and hardy. We rent them out as they’re needed, to local farmers and such.”
Rhys shook his head. What a waste of the man’s skill. “I wonder that you don’t keep posting horses.” To expedite travel, private and public coaches changed horses frequently. If the Three Hounds offered posting horses for hire and exchange, the inn could draw a great deal more business.
“I’d like to,” the man answered, “but I’ve no suitable breeding stock. Hard to gather that kind of coin, especially in a village where folk pay their debts with eggs more often than shillings.”
“I can imagine.” Rhys startled as something prodded the back of his knee. He wheeled to find a pair of long-eared hounds nosing at his boots. “Go on,” he told them, feinting a kick. “I’ve no scraps for you.”
Though oddly, he could have sworn he smelled fresh-baked bread.
“They’re just being friendly,” a feminine voice said. “It’s me they’re after.”
Meredith stood before him, both arms wrapped around a large woven basket. A bounty of yeast rolls peeked out from beneath a printed muslin cloth. Rhys’s stomach churned with awakened hunger.
Damn, his whole body was churning with awakened hunger.
“You’re still here,” she said. “Thought perhaps you’d left.”
“I did. And then I came back.”
“I don’t know how this inn got its name,” she said, watching the dogs nip the tassel of his boot. “Maddox only ever kept two hounds. When he was drunk, he used to tell smart-mouthed travelers the third hound was in the pie.” She spared him a fleeting glance before calling past him into the stables. “Father, I’ve told you, leave that work to Darryl. You’re not supposed to be straining your heart.”
“I’m brushing down the finest gelding in Devonshire. It’s a pleasure, not a strain. And Darryl’s gone to fetch water.”
Rhys heard her release a frustrated sigh. Her brow creased with concern. “Father, you can’t—”
Rhys laid a hand to her shoulder and drew her away from the door. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t tell a man what he can’t do. He’ll only be more determined to prove you wrong.”
Her face couldn’t decide what expression to take. Her brow was more than a mite annoyed with his interference, and her cheeks were turning an embarrassed pink. But her lips twitched at the corners as though she might cry, and her eyes …
Her eyes were just beautiful. They made him too stupid to hold his next thought. If it hadn’t been for the mountain of bread between them, he would have embraced her then and there.
Embraced her, of all things. What an idea. Where were these fancies coming from? Meredith Maddox was a beautiful woman, and there was no denying that he craved her body more than he craved a peaceful night’s sleep. Any man with a pulse would feel the same. But this wasn’t just lust. He’d never experienced such longing simply to take a woman in his arms and keep her there. He’d wanted to kiss her last night, and he’d never been much for kissing at all. It smacked of romance and innocence and all those other things that had nothing to do with him. His past encounters with women had borne a remarkable resemblance to his fights—impulsive, brutish, and never very satisfying.
What he wanted with Meredith was different. This strong, self-sufficient woman had awakened a tender impulse inside him. He was responsible for the state of her life. For the state of this village, in fact. It was his fault that it was barely dawn, and she’d already been working hard for hours. His fault that she had to play caretaker to an invalid father by day and constable to a band of unruly drunkards by night. Every hobbled step her father took, each tiny callus on her hand, every spot of blood on her dainty white tablecloth … all of it was his own damn fault.