“That was you?”

Meredith was aghast. When Gideon had awoken this afternoon, the two of them had shared a pot of tea and a lengthy conversation. Among other things, he’d sworn he wasn’t responsible for Rhys’s injury that night at the ruins. Since he had no reason to lie about it now, she’d concluded the whole thing must have been an accident.

Evidently she’d concluded wrong.

Through sheer force of will, she kept her voice even. “Darryl, what did you do to Lord Ashworth? Tell me this instant.”

“I didn’t do anything to him. Let’s just say I gave Mr. Bellamy’s carriage a bit of special attention.”

Meredith gasped. “Mr. Bellamy’s carriage? But … but Cora went with them!” Hadn’t Darryl been half in love with the girl? Every male in the village was half in love with the girl.

“Oh, you mean the harlot?” He shook his head, tsking softly. “She seemed nice enough at the beginning, but she showed her true colors in the end. We’re better off without her, Mrs. Maddox. The Three Hounds isn’t that sort of inn.”

She could only stare at him, transfixed with disbelief.

“Do you know what I wonder?” His little smile crawled over her skin. “I wonder if he’ll truly haunt us when he’s dead. I hope he does. The travelers would like that. I’ll have to change my story a bit, but that’s all right. What do you think, Mrs. Maddox?” he asked, moving toward her. “Which sounds better? ‘The Phantom Lord’? Or ‘The Ghostly Baron’?”

“Neither,” she said, stepping back. A floorboard creaked. Her fingers tightened around the sewing scissors in her hand. “Don’t come any closer. You’re frightening me.”

“They’re just stories, Mrs. Maddox. And it’s only me. You know me.”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“Don’t be angry.” He moved closer. “I did it for you. For us. We were doing well for ourselves until Lord Ashworth came back. Bringing his fancy London friend and that harlot around, making trouble for the whole village. He tore up the tavern, tried to take you away.” Darryl gestured angrily. “I couldn’t watch him destroy the Three Hounds, Mrs. Maddox. I’ve worked too hard for that place.”

He’d worked too hard? “Darryl, you fool. No one’s worked harder for that place than I have. And I’m telling you, Lord Ashworth’s return was the best thing to ever happen to Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. The best thing to ever happen to me. How dare you, you …”

Despite all her resolve to be strong, Meredith began to tremble. Her eyes fluttered closed, and horrid possibilities flashed behind them. Rhys always claimed to be indestructible, but no man was immortal. What if Darryl had somehow managed to …

No.

She opened her eyes, and she knew. She just knew, with a profound, bone-deep certainty, that everything was going to be fine.

“You’re wrong, Darryl. Lord Ashworth is coming back. Not as a ghost or a phantom, but alive and whole.”

“Now, Mrs. Maddox, you’re not listening …”

“No, I’m not. I’m telling you, he’s coming back. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he’s standing behind you right now.”

Darryl froze. He gulped loudly. His eyelashes danced a wild jig as he turned by slow degrees, then tilted his head up.

And up.

And up, all the way to Rhys’s waiting glare.

“Boo.” With a lightning-quick motion, Rhys grabbed Darryl by the throat. The younger man squirmed and sputtered, clawing in vain at Rhys’s grip.

“You scheming little bastard,” Rhys snarled. “I knew I didn’t like you.”

“Is Cora well?” Meredith asked, nearly beside herself with emotion.

“She’s well.” Rhys tightened his grip, and the shade of Darryl’s face deepened from scarlet to plum. “But she could have died. We all could have died.” He gave the youth a shake. “I’ve a mind to throw you in the bog, let the wild pigs sniff you out.”

Tears were streaming down Darryl’s face by this point, and his violet complexion was tending toward blue.

“Rhys,” Meredith said, tilting her head toward the youth. “Please.”

He instantly released his grip.

“Damn,” Rhys muttered as Darryl fell to the floor, dragging in air with raspy gulps. “Lucky for you, this is the week I give up killing men with my bare hands.”

“Gads.” Darryl writhed on the floor, clutching his stomach and gasping like a fish plucked from a stream.

“Can’t. Breathe.”

Rhys glared at him. “Burns, doesn’t it?”

Darryl’s head jerked in response.

“Good. I’m glad.” Rhys turned to Meredith. “I know that feeling, Merry.” He spoke low and only to her. “I’ve dangled at the brink of death more times than I can count. And that steep climb back to life, it hurts like hell. The pain of an injury is over in seconds. Everything that comes after is the pain of getting well.” He gave her a heartfelt look, full of apology. “I’d forgotten that, you see. Coming back to life … It hurts.”

She nodded, understanding him perfectly. His was a battered soul, and her love … it must have hit him like gin dashed over an open wound. But he was back here, ready to take more of it, no matter how it pained him inside. Because he was the bravest man on God’s earth.

And he was hers. All hers, at last. Her heart swelled with joy.

From the floor, Darryl moaned.

“Get out,” Rhys growled at him. “Get out, and begone. Unless you want to spend eternity haunting those ruins yourself, you will not let me find you.”

Still gasping for air, Darryl crawled toward the ladder on his belly. At a painfully slow rate, he disappeared from the loft. A dull thud suggested he’d taken the last few rungs the hard way. At last, they heard the door swing on its hinges.

When Meredith and Rhys were finally alone, he turned to her. His brow furrowed with concentration.

“I love you,” he said bluntly. “I have to say that, before anything else. Because it’s the most important thing. I love you.”

Dear, dear man. He spoke the words as though they were some sort of damning verdict on her life. “I’m very happy to hear it.”

He heaved a sigh of obvious relief. He ambled his way across the room to her, looking around the loft. “You’re hanging curtains?”

She nodded, sliding her scissors onto the windowsill. “The lace you bought in Bath.”

“Pretty.”

He stopped next to the window and surveyed the view over her shoulder. So close to her, but not touching yet. Her breathing came quick, and her heart began to pound. Every inch of her tingled with anticipation.

He said casually, “I think this would be an ideal nook for a dressing table. Little chair, a mirror.” His big hands outlined a square in the empty space. Oh, how she wanted those hands on her. “Your silver hairbrush set can go right here.”

“Right next to your shaving kit.”

His big hand reached for hers. She looked up into warm brown eyes brimming with emotion.

“Merry.”

Her heart swelled as he finally pulled her into his arms. Just where she wanted to be. He inclined his head until his whiskered chin grazed her temple. And they stood there together, just breathing. The moment was too intense for a kiss, too profound for words. The relief, the joy, the sheer rightness of it all.

She pressed her forehead to his frayed lapel and the wall of muscle beneath. “I knew you’d come back,” she whispered. “I just knew it.”

His hands framed her waist, and he pulled her back to look at him. “Thought you didn’t believe in fate or destiny.”

“I still don’t. But I believe in you.”

“Good.” His throat worked as he stared deep into her eyes. “Because fate be damned. God and the Devil and every one of their minions could convene right here and now to drag me off to my doom, and I’d fight my way through each and every one of them to stay with you. Not because it’s my destiny or my punishment or for lack of alternatives, but because I love you too much to be anywhere else. And if you refuse to marry me, I’ll remain here still. Come down to the inn every night for a meal and a pint, just to look at you and be near you. I …” He brushed the hair back from her face, cupping her cheek in his weathered hand. “Merry, I love you.”

“Oh, Rhys. I—” She hesitated, searching his eyes. “Can you bear it if …?”

He nodded. “Tell me.”

“I love you, too. I’ve loved you for so long.”

His eyes closed briefly, then opened again. “Still hurts a bit. But it’s getting better.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “As I recall, you still owe me an answer.”

“Remind me of the question.”

“Will you marry me?”

She pretended to think on it. “Yes.”

They smiled at one another. After all that time and all that discussion … yes, it really was that simple. Because it just felt right.

In a sudden burst of strength, he grasped her by the waist and tossed her into the air as if she weighed nothing. He caught her just under the hips, holding her fast to his chest and making her the taller of the two. Which gave her the immense joy of staring down at his wide, rugged smile. And then the very great pleasure of bending her head by slow, teasing degrees … until she finally kissed it away.

How she loved this man. Theirs would never be a soft, gentle kind of affection. They were both made of granite, chipped off this moor, and their love would be fierce and stubborn and even painful when they clashed. But also solid and enduring. A love to last for all time.

Finally setting her on her feet, he pressed his brow to hers. “Have I thanked you for saving me?”

Eyes still closed, she shook her head no.

“Well, then. I’ll be certain to do that. Every day, for the rest of our lives.” He kissed her brow. “I’m a broken man, Merry. I can’t lie to you. It may take some time before I’m truly whole, and even then, the pieces may never come together quite right. But I’m grateful to you. Grateful for you. And I love you, more than I have words or strength to express. I will never leave your side again.”

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. “Even if you tried, I wouldn’t let you go.”

Sweet promises, both. But they didn’t last long.

Rhys did leave her side, the very next morning. And Meredith gladly let him go, for the errand was one of some urgency. Rhys rode to Lydford and made a swift return, curate in tow. It wasn’t the first Sunday of the month, but it was a Sunday. Therefore, Rhys had decided it would be their wedding day. Meredith was not inclined to argue. Their tiny village church hadn’t seen an Evening Prayer service in years, but it saw one that night. By candlelight, no less. Flickering tapers warmed each amber and red stained-glass window. The reading of the banns was followed by a marriage rite, with the entire population of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor in attendance. The groom wore immaculate black and white; the bride, a veil of Bath lace. Bellamy and Cora stood up as witnesses. George Lane looked on with pride.

And everyone—at least, everyone Cora could nudge into agreement—declared the scene to be the picture of romance.

Afterward they adjourned for dancing and merriment in the tavern. There, surrounded by increasingly tipsy well-wishers, Meredith laced her fingers behind her husband’s neck as they danced some approximation of a waltz.

“Lady Ashworth,” he said in a tone of mock formality, “you look uncommonly lovely tonight.” He pulled her close and nuzzled her ear. “God, it’s good to finally call you that.”