Twice Tempted by a Rogue (17 page)

With a brave smile, Cora cautiously linked her arm with his. “Thank you, my lord. That’s very good of you, I’m sure.”

The two of them started for the door.

“We’ll all walk together,” Meredith blurted out. Hurrying round the bar, she nudged Gideon from his stool and jammed her arm through his. “All four of us.”

When he tried to withdraw his arm, she dug her fingernails into his sleeve. She knew he hadn’t darkened the church door since the old vicar left, but he would fall to his knees in prayer today. Even if she had to knock his legs out from under him.

Tugging Gideon forward, Meredith shut up the tavern, then hurried to keep step with Rhys and Cora as they entered the courtyard. What a party they made: a lord, a whore, a smuggler, and a widow, all walking to the church. It was like the prelude to some bizarre, blasphemous joke that would only sound more humorous with successive pints of cider.

As it was, Meredith had a hard time not releasing a drunken giggle as they stepped through the entrance. Surprisingly enough, the earth did not open to swallow them all in one efficient gulp. As had been the custom in Buckleigh-in-the-Moor since long before Meredith’s time, the men occupied one side of the church, and the ladies sat opposite. She took it upon herself to separate Cora from Rhys’s arm and herded her down a narrow wooden pew. Across the aisle, her father and Darryl sat in one of the first rows. Father caught her eye and gave her an approving nod.

When Rhys took his seat at the end of the same pew, Meredith worried for a moment that his colossal bulk would act as the trigger for a catapult, launching Father and Darryl into the air.

It didn’t, but there was a creaking moment of concern.

Gideon didn’t join their group. He eased into the row behind, crossing his arms over his chest. His surly expression matched his posture of disrespect.

It did something strange to her insides, just gazing at them all, seated so close together. Despite their differences and their ambivalence toward one another, she cared for all four men, in different ways. She liked having them all in her sights at one time.

Darryl drew her attention with a frantic wave. His eyes shilling-wide, he pointed at Cora. “Who’s that?” he mouthed.

“Cora,” she said back. “New barmaid.”

The youth stared, his jaw gone slack with sentiments that had no place in a house of God.

Darryl’s weren’t the only eyes fixed on Cora, either. Throughout the sanctuary, every man’s eyes held a look of fascinated rapture. Every woman’s gaze burned with envy. Church
and
tavern attendance were likely to go up during Cora’s stay, she’d wager.

When the curate took the pulpit, she noticed that he and Rhys exchanged little nods of greeting, as though they’d been already introduced. Perhaps Rhys had taken it upon himself to greet the clergyman earlier—it would make sense that he had, if he were determined to start fulfilling the role of local lord.

Perhaps he truly did mean to stay.

Gideon’s words echoed in her ear.
He’s the other kind, Merry. The leaving kind
.

Despite all the excitement and confusion of the morning, as the service began, she remembered why she so rarely attended anymore—for the same reason she read her newspapers standing up. As hard as she labored day in and day out, if she sat still for more than three minutes at a stretch, her body interpreted it as an invitation to doze. During the first reading, somewhere between “begat” and “spake,” it was as though her chin grew a thick coating of lead. Her neck muscles simply refused to hold it up.

“Meredith Maddox.”

She jolted awake. Was that
her
name she’d just heard? Surely this curate hadn’t developed the habit of chastising sleepy congregants from the pulpit.

“And Rhys St. Maur,” the curate went on, “both of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. If any of you know of any cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”

Chapter Eleven

The entire assembly went dead silent. No one was sleeping now. And Meredith had never been more awake.

Banns. He’d told the curate to read the banns, announcing their intent to marry in front of the entire village. In front of her father. In front of Gideon Myles. Of all the presumptuous …

With a loud harrumph, the curate turned the page of his liturgy and began to intone the psalm in a low, sonorous voice. No one stood. No one sang. When the curate paused, no one joined the response.

And since they were all so clearly waiting for her to make a scene, Meredith decided to oblige them. She rose in her pew and confronted Rhys across the aisle. “You had him read the banns? What on earth would possess you to do that?”

Did he mean to simply circumvent her? Persistence in a suitor was one thing. Complete disregard for a lady’s willing acceptance was another.

“They have to be read three times,” Rhys said, as if it should be obvious. “He only comes here once a month. If we’re to be married with any sort of reasonable speed, I thought …”

“What are you on about? We aren’t engaged!”

“Perhaps not,” he said calmly. “But we will be married. Call it faith.”

“You …” Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “You are impossible.”

He pointed to his prayer book and read with beatific calm, “‘With God, nothing shall be impossible.’”

Meredith turned into the aisle. She couldn’t remain there a moment longer without profaning the place.

She stormed straight out of the chapel, and the entire congregation followed in a thunder of footsteps. Not surprising. Church service happened once a month, but melodramas like these were the stuff of the annual fair.

“Meredith!” Rhys called to her as she hurried down the church steps and turned into the road. Unfortunately, his strides were worth three of hers. He caught her arm and wheeled her to face him. “You can’t run away from this.”

“What’s he talking about?” Gideon appeared at her side, breathless. “Have you agreed to marry this man?”

“No,” she insisted, snatching her hand from Rhys’s grasp.

“Do you want me to kill him for you?”

“No!” Once she’d mastered her voice, she repeated. “No, there is no violence necessary. And no, I have
not
agreed to marry him.”

“Ah, but she will,” Rhys said with a saintly expression. “So it has been written.” He looked down at the open prayer book he still carried in his hand and flipped a page.

“Quote to me one more time from that book,” Meredith said, leveling a finger at him, “and you invite its desecration.”

His mouth snapped shut. So did the book.

By now the entire village—churchgoers and the rest—had assembled in the road to watch the commotion.

“La!” exclaimed Cora, watching from a few paces away. “This is so romantic!”

“This is nothing,” Darryl whispered to her. “Just wait until I take you on a tour of the moors. We’ve ancient burial cairns and haunted ruins … It’s a mystical journey through time.”

The girl cooed softly. “You don’t say.”

“Nothing about this is romantic!” Meredith cried, running a hand through her hair. “It’s oafish, and … and overbearing. Not to mention, insulting.”

“Insulting?” Rhys echoed. “How so?”

“To be proposed marriage as some sort of eventuality of fate, regardless of how I might feel about the idea? Simply because the man in question has nothing better to do with his time?” She turned to Cora. “Perhaps that meets your definition of romance, but it doesn’t square with mine.”

Rhys cocked his head. “So that’s the problem,” he said wonderingly. “You’re holding out for romance.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant. You want romance. You want to be wooed.” He looked to the horizon, whistled softly, and muttered an oath that surely wouldn’t be found in the pages of his prayer book. “I’m no good at that.”

Gideon arched a brow. “Too bad for you.”

Thoroughly exasperated, she looked from one man to the other. “Listen, the both of you. I don’t intend to marry anyone. That inn across the road is the heart of this village. And my heart is in that inn.”

“I know it,” Rhys said. “That’s why I’ve pledged to fund improvements to the Three Hounds. A new wing of guest rooms, no less. And in time, a stable of posting horses.”

A murmur of interest swept the crowd.

Rhys continued in a voice for all to hear, “There’ll be work to be done, wages to be earned. With Mrs. Maddox’s help, I plan to ensure the well-being of the inn, and of the village.”

“I beg your pardon,” Gideon seethed, “but I’ve been doing both those things for some time now. Looking after the inn and the village. With Mrs. Maddox’s help.” He puffed his chest. “No one wants you here.”

“They may not want me, but they’ve got me. Which means this town has no more need of
you.”

The crowd hushed.

Red surged up Gideon’s throat, spreading up his face, all the way to his hairline. “Don’t you—”

Rhys said, “You can go, Mr. Myles.”

But he couldn’t
, Meredith wanted to protest. It didn’t matter whether or not the place needed him; Gideon needed this place. The smuggling trade wasn’t the half of it. Even though he’d grown to a man, that abandoned boy still lived inside him, craving family, friendship, acceptance. He didn’t believe he’d find them anywhere else. If Rhys backed him into a corner … there was no telling what he’d do.

Gideon’s hand went to cover the pistol jammed in the waistband of his trousers. His index finger tapped in an ominous rhythm.

“Gideon, no. You’re better than that.”

“Am I?” He flicked Meredith a glance. “Let’s have her decide, shall we? She knows best what—or whom—this village needs. Who will it be, Meredith? Lord Ashworth? Or me? Seems this place isn’t big enough for the two of us.”

Wonderful. How could he put her in such a position? The eyes of the village were on her now. This wasn’t the time to appear hesitant or unsure. Meredith drew a shaky breath and clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.

“This village needs an inn,” she said, speaking to the crowd. “A respectable establishment, fit for quality guests. Men may come and go. But this road we’re standing on will always be here. It’s our one resource, and it will bring us a steady stream of travelers with coin to spend. We just need to be ready to serve them.”

Many of the assembled villagers began to nod.

She tilted her head toward Rhys. “We need Lord Ashworth to fund the improvements.” She gestured at Gideon. “We need Mr. Myles to haul the supplies and stores. And we need every willing, able-bodied man to join in the labor.”

Lowering her voice, she turned to Rhys and Gideon. “Gentlemen, if this village isn’t big enough for the two of you … I suggest you begin the work of enlarging it.”

She turned and walked briskly toward the inn.

“How long?” Gideon caught up and grabbed her by the elbow. “How long will it take, this building scheme?”

She looked skyward for the answer. “I don’t know … two months?”

“Two months.”

“Give or take.”

“Very well, then,” he said through his teeth. “Because I know this is important to you, I’ll give you two months. See that Ashworth is gone at the end of them. Or it’s God’s truth, Meredith …” His eyes went gunmetal gray. “I’ll kill him.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off to the stables, leaving her with nothing but a cold certainty that he meant that threat. At the horse barn door, he stopped for a moment before disappearing inside. “Two months.”

Rhys came to stand beside her, laying a hand to the small of her back. “Well, glad to know that’s all settled. Good. He’ll be here for the wedding.”

“What?” Meredith was seriously beginning to wonder if he hadn’t taken a grenade to the head during his time on the Peninsula.

“Two months. That’s what Myles said, wasn’t it? We’ll be married in two months. Next month will be the second reading of the banns, and then a month after that, the third. We can be married that very Sunday.”

She gaped at him. “For the tenth time, I haven’t agreed to marry you. And didn’t you hear Gideon just now? He will kill you.”

He made a derisive sound. “He might
try.”

“You’re impossible.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“And … and infuriating!”

“Don’t forget indestructible. And here’s something else. I’m your future husband.” He cast a glance around the crowded courtyard. “All of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor knows it now, so you might as well get used to the idea. In the meantime, I’ll do my best with the romance.”

He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her knuckles. And despite all her attempts to keep a disapproving expression on her face, below the neck she melted to mist.

“I don’t want to be wooed,” she said feebly. And completely unconvincingly, even to her own hearing. “Go away, damn you.”

“Oh, I’ll go.” He backed away, grinning ear to ear. “I’ll go. But I’ll be back. With flowers.”