But as the men before him lurched into motion, scraping chairs and tables against the slate floor as they dragged the furniture back into place, Rhys realized her words hadn’t been meant for him. He was almost disappointed. He would have liked to put things to rights for her. Starting with that mussed dark hair.

With an impatient sweep of her fingers, she tucked a lock behind her ear. “Welcome to the Three Hounds,” she said. “Are you coming in, or aren’t you?”

Oh, he was coming in. He was most definitely coming in.

Rhys stepped forward and closed the door behind him.

Before he could acknowledge her welcome, the barmaid’s attention jerked away. “Not there, Skinner. Left side of the hearth.”

Skinner hurried to obey. All six burly feet of him.

“I’ve a horse outside,” Rhys said, once he had her attention again.

She nodded and summoned a twiggy youth from the bar. “Darryl, see to the gentleman’s horse.” To Rhys she said, “Will you drink whiskey, sir?”

“Just ale.”

“I’ve rabbit stew and mutton pie.”

His stomach rumbled. “I’d welcome both.”

“Have a seat, then.”

Rhys crossed to a table, lowered his weight onto the most sturdy-looking of the chairs, and accepted a tankard of ale from her hand.

He sipped at the cool ale, watching the barmaid and her band of reformed pugilists clear the room of debris. No wonder this place still did a brisk business. To Rhys’s recollection, old Maddox had never kept barmaids this fair, nor this fierce.

She kept stealing looks at him, even as she swept broken glass from the floor and rolled up the soiled linen tablecloth. There was an intriguing softness to her gaze.

That couldn’t be right. Perhaps she was looking at someone else. Under the guise of stretching, Rhys rotated his neck and turned an unhurried glance about the room.

No. There was no one else.

Strange.

Everything about the woman—her bearing, her voice, the reactions she inspired—declared her strength. But her eyes were telling him something else. They spoke of hopes and fears and vulnerability, and Rhys had no idea why she’d be revealing all that to a complete stranger, least of all him—but he knew one thing. Those looks she kept giving him contained more direct human contact than he’d known in years.

She was touching him. From across the room, with her hands otherwise occupied, she was touching him. He felt it deep inside.

Rhys sipped his ale and pondered the queer nature of fate. He was a steadfast believer in destiny. There was no other way to explain the fact that his heart still beat. In his eleven years in the light infantry, he’d spent battle after battle charging headlong into the bloody fray, eager to meet his death. Only to be cruelly disappointed, when fate spared him once again. He simply could not die. But for once, maybe for once his wretched good luck was about to throw him a true boon.

As she bent to sweep splintered wood from the corner, he observed the gentle curve of her neck, the loose strands of hair at her nape. He could spend a very pleasant minute winding that lock of hair about his finger, counting how many times it would wrap around. Five, he guessed, or maybe six.

When she straightened and their eyes met again, he raised his ale in a silent salute. She smiled shyly before looking away. Odd, because she didn’t seem the shy type.

As if to prove the point, she called across the room, “Laurence, get Harry back in the nook where he belongs. He’s bleeding on my flagstones, and I just scrubbed them yesterday.”

“Aye, Meredith.”

Meredith. The name pulled a thread in his mind, but the memory unraveled before Rhys could grasp it.

Laurence slid an arm under the moaning heap that was Harry Symmonds and shouldered the unconscious man to his feet.

“Don’t ‘Meredith’ me.” She shooed them toward a secluded alcove with her broom. “So long as you’re going to behave like boys, it’ll be Mrs. Maddox to you.”

The ale soured on Rhys’s tongue. Mrs. Maddox?

Ah, hell. This young, strong, beautiful woman was married to old Maddox? Not a barmaid after all, but the inn’s landlady. So much for fate throwing him a boon. He should have known better. There’d be nothing so beautiful for him on this earth.

A trencher of stew and a wedge of mutton pie appeared on the table before him. Rhys dug in, keeping his gaze stubbornly trained on the food rather than his lovely server. He didn’t pursue married women, no matter what sort of looks they threw him. Not to mention, if she was married to Maddox and making eyes at Rhys, the woman must be not only fickle, but daft and half-blind in the bargain.

He was hungrier than he’d realized, and he cleaned both plates in a matter of minutes. He’d always been a fast, efficient eater, even more so since the army. More than once in the year since he’d inherited the Ashworth title, he’d looked up from a finely laid London dinner table to discover his table manners the object of intense, horrified scrutiny. Just another of his acquired traits that sent English ladies groping for their vinaigrettes.

He bolted the rest of his ale and carried the empty tankard to the bar for refilling. Mrs. Maddox had disappeared for the moment, and a gap-toothed young man stood behind the counter. Rhys recognized him as the youth she’d charged with stabling his horse. What was his name again? Dylan? Dermott?

“Darryl Tewkes, at your service, sir. Will it be another ale?”

The young man took the tankard from Rhys, and his left eye creased at the edge as he did it. Rhys couldn’t tell if it was a wink or some sort of nervous twitch. The latter, he hoped, when the eye flashed shut a second time. He had an amusing look to him, this Darryl Tewkes. Sharp nose, pointy ears. Like one of the piskies old moorfolk still believed in.

“Yours is a fine horse, sir,” Darryl went on, handing him a mug of fresh ale. “I’ve seen him settled in well. He’s unsaddled, watered. I’ll go back out to brush him down and give him hay in a minute or two.”

Rhys nodded his approval and raised his drink.

“Does he have a name, sir? The horse?”

He wiped his mouth with his cuff. “No.” He never named them, not anymore.

“Will the gentleman be staying long in the neighborhood?” Darryl asked.

“Just one night.”

At the outset, Rhys hadn’t been sure how long he’d stay. But now he knew—one night of this place was all he could take. In the morning, he’d ride up the slope and take a long, slow look at what he’d come to see. And then he’d leave. Surely he could hire a steward or land agent to come tend to any matters here that needed attention. That was what titled gentlemen of means did, wasn’t it? Where he’d go after that, Rhys had no idea. Wherever fate took him, he supposed.

“One night?” Darryl’s eye gave an eager twitch. “Sir, you must stay more than one night. One night isn’t anywhere long enough to see the local attractions.”

Rhys frowned. Attractions? There were local attractions?

The younger man’s eyebrows rose. “I give tours to travelers,” he said, his face brightening. “Two hours, or half a day. Best value for your coin is my full-day Mystic Moor excursion, complete with guided commentary and a picnic lunch.”

Rhys chuckled at the image of genteel travelers picnicking in the shadow of Bell Tor. He hoped they took precautions against the ravens. He cleared his throat and asked, “What sort of attractions?”

“Why, it’s a mystical trip through time, you see.” He made a grand, expansive gesture. “I’ll start by taking you round to the ancient burial cairns, and the abandoned tinners’ works from centuries past.”

Rhys was well familiar with those sights. They looked remarkably like random piles of stone.

“Then there’s the old monks’ crosses. And Bell Tor, of course. On a clear day, you can see—”

“Even more rocks?” Rhys grunted, still unimpressed.

“Oh, but that’s nothing. I haven’t yet told you the best part of the tour. The haunted ruins of Nethermoor Hall.”

Now he had Rhys’s attention. “Haunted ruins, you say?”

Darryl settled both elbows on the counter and leaned forward, as though he didn’t dare speak too loud. “Yes. Nethermoor Hall. The cursed House of Ashworth. Generations of evil flourished in that house. Till one summer night fourteen years ago, when it burnt to the ground in an unholy conflagration. My tour ends there, just as the hour turns toward dusk. Sometimes, if you listen sharp, you can hear the crackle of flames, or catch a whiff of brimstone on the wind. That blaze was the judgment of God, folk say. After that night, the family was never heard from again.”

“What happened to them?” Rhys asked, surprised to hear the question come from his lips. He had to credit the younger man. Darryl did have a knack for spinning tales. “I mean, you spoke of haunting.”

“Ah yes. Well, the old Lord Ashworth’s ghost hasn’t been seen. He never returned to Devonshire. Died just last year, somewhere in Ireland, I think. Lady Ashworth, she died several years before the blaze. There are some folk here—the ones with the touch—who’ve seen her ghostly form hovering high above the ruined house. As though she’s still pacing the upstairs corridors. But it’s the son people see most often.”

Rhys choked on a mouthful of ale. “The son?”

“Aye. He was a wild youth, always making trouble. Churned up the moor with his reckless rides. Folk say he had bit of devil in him.”

“And he died in this fire?”

“Not precisely. He nearly perished—should have died, by accounts. But even though he survived, it’s like he left a ghostly imprint on Nethermoor Hall. People spy his phantom wandering the place, especially on warm summer nights. They’ve even seen him gallop across the moor on a spectral horse, flames licking at his heels.”

Rhys blinked at the youth, unsure whether to be amused, bemused, offended, or … mildly concerned. Outlandish as Darryl’s tale might be, parts of it held the faint ring of truth. All these years he’d spent feeling half alive, could it be because he’d left some ghost of his adolescent self behind? He shook his head to dispel the fool notion. This Dartmoor fog must be creeping in through his ears, muddling his brain.

“So.” Darryl leaned forward and waggled his eyebrows. “The tour. Are you man enough? Do you dare risk an encounter with Rhys St. Maur, the living phantom of Bell Tor?”

A smile tugged at Rhys’s lips. Now this could prove amusing. Before he could decide just how to respond, a figure joined Darryl’s on the business side of the bar.

Meredith.

Mrs. Maddox, he corrected himself.

“Darryl,” she said, clouting the youth on the back of the head, “you idiot. This is Rhys St. Maur. Lord Ashworth now. You’re talking to your ‘living phantom,’ live and in the flesh.”

Darryl’s pale face went whiter still as he stared at Rhys, jaw working to no audible effect. At least his eye had finally ceased twitching.

The youth swallowed hard as Rhys braced his arm on the bar and leaned forward. Until their faces were just inches apart. And then, when he was certain Darryl was paying very close attention, he lowered his voice and whispered …

“Boo.”

Chapter Two

“I … You’re …” Darryl stammered. “I mean to say, it isn’t …” “I’ll see to him, Darryl.” With a tone that would brook no argument, Meredith shooed the addlewit groom from the bar. “Back to the stables you go.”

Rhys was staring at her. To avoid staring back, Meredith quickly looked away, making a show of straightening bottles. So far, she’d made do with furtive glances, but she’d gaze at him all night long if she could, exploring his every contour and shadow. Cataloging all the ways he’d changed and all the ways he hadn’t.