“It is respectable. As I said, she’s not working that trade anymore.”

“Oh, I see. So this is your new charity project, rehabilitating fallen women?”

“No. She’s a friend of Lord Ashworth’s, and she needs a place to stay.”

His jaw clenched. “Ashworth’s still here?”

“Here in the inn? No. Here in the neighborhood? Yes.”

Gideon swore. “So he’s moving his personal whore into the inn. And what’s next? Don’t let him get cozy here, Meredith.”

“She’s not his whore.” She sighed. This wasn’t how she’d hoped to break the news of the construction partnership. “Sit at the bar,” she told him. “I’ll bring you something to eat, and we’ll talk.”

Back in the kitchen, she praised Cora’s progress as she poured a mug of tea and heaped a plate high with hot rolls and a cold leg of chicken from the night before. She set both mug and plate before Gideon on the bar. As was the case with most men, his mood usually improved after a meal.

“Now listen,” she said as he fell on the food, “I won’t hear anyone speaking that way of Cora. She had a bad lot of luck when she was younger, and circumstances forced her into a less-than-honorable occupation. Which makes her not so different from some smugglers I know. Anyhow, she won’t be taking any customers here.”

“Are you certain?” He washed down his third roll with a gulp of tea. Craning his neck, he curved his gaze around Meredith to gawk through the kitchen doorway. “Old habits and all that. With looks like hers, she won’t lack for offers. What if she just gets bored? What if she takes a fancy to some traveler who pays her a few compliments, and takes him to her bed?”

“Then she wouldn’t be much different from me, now would she?” Side-stepping to block his view, she said icily, “For a man with no aspirations to the clergy, you’re frightfully judgmental today.”

“I just don’t like it. She’s trouble.”

“Most of my favorite people are.”

When he failed to respond, she studied him close. He’d downed four rolls and the chicken now, and he still had that gleam of hunger in his eye. So here was the explanation for his ill humor. He wanted Cora. He desired the girl, and he was annoyed with himself for it.

To be truthful, Meredith was a mite annoyed with him, too. She was used to Gideon making eyes at her over his mug of tea. But Cora was younger, prettier, and decidedly more buxom. She supposed a man couldn’t look at her without his mouth watering, any more than he could stand dry-mouthed before a juicy, well-seasoned roast of beef.

Still, it hurt her pride a bit.

“The men will be brawling over her every night,” he said, a mulish set to his jaw. “If both Symmonds boys survive the week, I’ll be shocked.”

“They’ll be too worn out to brawl.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ll be working.”

He made a dismissive snort. “Not likely. While Ashworth’s still in the area, I can’t resume with the wagons. The men are on furlough.”

“They’ll be working for me. And for Lord Ashworth.”

“Meredith,” he growled. “Tell me you’re joking. And do it fast.”

“It’s the truth.” She told him of the building scheme, all the while enduring his cool glare—one that only grew colder by successive degrees, the more she explained the plan. By the time she finished, she would have sworn frost had crystallized on his eyelashes.

“You must understand,” she pleaded. “I’ve been saving money for years now, both thick and thin, and it would have taken me another decade to raise the funds Lord Ashworth can pull from his coat lining. I have to take this chance, can’t you see? This is my one opportunity to improve the inn.”

“He’s rebuilding Nethermoor Hall, for Christ’s sake. What’ll become of my goods up there?”

“He’s not rebuilding the Hall. He’s building a cottage nearby. During construction, we’ll be able to give you honest work, hauling legitimate supplies. As for the other … well, the man can only be in one place at a time. When they’re busy putting a rise on the inn, you’ll be able to come and go from the moors as you please.”

“With whom? You’ve stolen my workforce.”

“I know it will take some doing, but you’ll make it work. Gideon, you don’t have a choice. Lord Ashworth’s not going to leave easily. He’s determined to see that cottage built.” She twisted an apron string about her finger. “He’s building it for Father. I can’t say no.”

She wouldn’t tell him Rhys was also ostensibly building the cottage for her, as his bride. No point in mentioning it. To that much, she’d already said no.

“And once these little construction projects are finished? What then?”

“He’ll leave.” The truth of it sank in her gut and weighed heavily there. “I’m certain of it.”

“Good. Because it’s a certainty. The man’s been absent fourteen years. A whim brought him back, and the next fickle breeze will chase him off again. I just hope your building’s raised before it happens.”

“It will be,” she said, shifting defensively. “With the amount of money he’s spending, I don’t know that I’d call it a whim.”

“He’s an aristocrat. Their whims may be expensive, but they’re whims just the same.”

Sniffing, she reached for his plate, stacking the silver and mug atop it. He wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t been telling herself since the night Rhys walked into this bar. But he said it very convincingly, and it was only just now she’d let herself realize how very much she wished they were both wrong.

Gideon leaned on the bar. He spoke with quiet intensity. “There are two kinds of people, Meredith. Ones who are made to stay in one place, and ones who aren’t. We’re the first kind, you and me. God knows, we could have left this village in our dust and gone on to bigger things, better things. But we didn’t, either one of us. Because we care about this godforsaken place, even if it never gave a damn for us. We’ll cling to the breast that weaned us, trying to wring milk from a granite teat, and don’t try to tell us it’s futile, because we already know. But we’re here.”

She swallowed hard.

“As for Ashworth …” He made a gruff sound in his throat. “He’s the other kind, Merry. The leaving kind. You’d do well to remember it.” He looked over his shoulder at the tavern, glancing from roofbeams to hearth. “You’ve poured years into this place. Work, sweat, blood, tears. What would you do to protect it?”

“Anything.” She didn’t even think the word, just spoke it. “Anything in my power.”

“Aye,” he said ominously, “I know you would. And you know I feel the same about my trade. To protect my livelihood, I’d do anything in my power. The only difference between us is, I travel armed.”

The door creaked open.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Gideon Myles. And his much-touted pistol.”

Rhys stood in the tavern entrance. He took up so much of the doorway that only a few meager scraps of sunlight framed his imposing silhouette. Slow, heavy strides carried him into the room, and Meredith’s heart bounced with each one.

“You know, Myles,” he said, propping one elbow on the bar, “it’s my experience that men who are always bragging about the size of their firearms are compensating for other”—he raked Gideon with a derisive glance—“deficiencies.” He turned to Meredith. “Good morning, Mrs. Maddox.”

“Yes,” she replied stupidly.

Yes. It was a very good morning, now.

Rhys looked magnificent. Fresh-scrubbed, clean-shaven, and turned out like a gentleman from head to toe—topcoat, cravat, waistcoat, trousers, boots. How had he managed it, camping out on the moor? She had visions—delicious visions—of him bathing in the stream, shaving in the glassy reflection of the pool. But why? For what earthly purpose?

Though her brain puzzled over the mystery, the rest of her had no question. She knew in her blood he’d made the effort for her. And that made him the most powerfully arousing sight she’d ever beheld. He smelled of soap and wild sage and clean male skin. She stared hard at the snow-white tangle of linen at his throat. Her fingers itched to get at that knot, wrest it open, wend inside his shirt, and lay claim to all within. He was like one big elaborately wrapped gift that she longed to tear open.

She laughed silently at the irony. All that care he’d put into his dress, with the ultimate result that she wanted him immediately, completely naked.

His fingers, so thick inside her …

“Are you ready for church?” he asked.

The word jarred her. “Ch-church? Did you say church?” And no. She was absolutely ready for something, but church wasn’t it.

“It is the first Sunday of the month, is it not?”

She nodded in disbelief. This was the reason he was all dandied up? For church?

As if in confirmation, the church bell began to toll.

“If you’re ready,” he said, “I thought you might walk over with me.”

Meredith drew in her breath with an audible hiss.

A lazy, lopsided smirk eased its way across Rhys’s face.

Oh, he was a sly devil. Dressing to seduce, and then tempting her with the one chaste activity that would make them an official pair in the eyes of the village. Walking to and from church together was something courting couples did. Hereabouts, it was tantamount to announcing an engagement.

“You don’t need me to walk with you,” she protested. “You can see the church from the front door. It’s paces away, just across the road. You can’t get lost.”

Gideon spoke up. “You heard the lady. She’s not walking anywhere with you. Why don’t you walk straight out of town?”

Perfect. Just what she needed, a contest between Rhys and Gideon to see who could piss the farthest. “I don’t believe I’ll go this morning. I …” She put a hand to her temple. “I have a touch of headache.”

Rhys didn’t answer, just slowly circled the counter to her side of the bar. Meredith braced her hands on the polished wood as he came to stand behind her, a little closer than was friendly. A long, silent moment passed, and the tempo of her pulse doubled. What did he mean to do?

She wasn’t even certain she’d felt it, at first. The sensation was more quiet than a whisper, more subtle than insinuation. Just the ghost of a caress tracing her lowermost left rib. The feeling intensified as it scraped over the vulnerable notch between waist and hip. Then snaked over the small of her back, insidious and tantalizing.

With sudden clarity, she realized what was happening. This storm of wicked sensation was all the result of one simple, deceptively innocent act. Rhys had her apron string between his fingers, and he was giving it a tug.

Slowly, surely … with an unwavering purpose she felt from the arches of her feet to the tingling roots of her hair … he was pulling the string loose.

There was a moment of tension. The length of rolled muslin drew taut. Quivered, resisted. At last, the knot surrendered.

And she was completely undone.

Confident hands rose to her shoulders. Hooking a finger under each strap, he drew the untied apron down her arms. She began to tremble by the time he reached her elbows. To disguise it, she took the task from him, shrugging the apron over her wrists.

Her tongue was thick as she swallowed around it. Awareness prickled over every inch of her flesh.

“Meredith.” His deep, insistent voice fell on her nape. “Walk with me.”

“Mrs. Maddox?” From the kitchen, Cora’s bright voice clashed through her desire. “Was that the church bell?”